Pablo Miguel Martínez: Adiós, o virgen de Guadalupe—
a wave, a wail, an endless loop
of hymn, of delirium. We laud her,
this brown-skinned girl, nimble,
balanced on a slip of moon,
headstrong as only mujercitas
her age can be, urge her back
to her celestial jefe. Go back
where you’re safe, chula.
What are you doing here,
among the nopales and the men
who’ll take ugly advantage?
Your heavenly Pops will fret.
Why can’t you be more like that immaculate girl who dressesin creamy white and sky blue? he’ll cry.
No seas tan exigente, asking ese indio
humilde to build you a shrine,
as if picking out a shiny trinket,
demanding a sign of his devotion,
as if conjuring roses in winter
were nothing, just like that. Don’t be
quick to part your cloak for any güey,
dropping a field of stars on which to lie
for your heated entwining. You are always
with us, morenita, in spiky sun rays,
your outline in handprints when your raza
is pressed against walls, against our wills.
Adiós, mi reina. Go find what you seek
en el otro lado. Here we will wait and hope
and pray, but for now, ¡Adiós, adiós!