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
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