Nuestra Señora de la Llama
Mostly she is light,
Hiding a fire inside herself,
fingering the memory of matches.
She consoles herself with blood.
She consoles herself with salt.
She consoles herself with the pungent scarf
of your damp hair.
She ventriloquizes rain
as the myth of pure white
plays itself out
on the black whale’s back.
Matches.
Never dropping her gaze,
Our Lady strikes fire on her bootsole.
Nancy A. Henry
mrseclecticist 