SEVEN SEVENS AND AN ENVOY
FOR JUAN DIEGO*
that
nothing was finer or ever would be again
than
the celebration of Our Lady of Guadalupe
in
her local church, in Florida,
with
the mariachis and the dancing.
Alright, I’m not sure she said dancing,
but this is not journalism; just shoot me when
it is.
So
I took a trek, I made a pilgrimage,
I mean, I left the Protestant comforts of
home,
and
drove fifty miles on 30 West to Warsaw, Indiana
that is,
where
the closest shrine to Nuestra Señora obviously was,
having
read about it in the Catholic Directory, if
there is such a thing
and
met at midnight with what felt like half a million Mexicans,
I
mean at least a hundred of us standing and only one of us a very tall gringo.
I
knew there would be mass, but in my ignorance
I
knew so little how (so) much more to expect.
The
singing, the children, the costumes, the flowers and families together at the
shrine,
the
processionals, the professionals, the prayers,
and, inconveniently, my heart ripped out of my chest and blood all over the pew.
My
mother, my father, every love I've lost, which pretty much includes them all,
walking
through the door, zombies too now, empty and bloody as hell,
finding
me there, then, together, parading down the aisle,
nuestros corazones heridos all turned to flowers in our hands.
We
kneel together, music all around,
a
song to the lady, the one Diego wrote,
Las Mañanitas, a birthday song
for the precious one you love:
Despierta,
mi bien, despierta, mira que ya amaneció
ya
los pajarillos cantan, la luna ya se metió.
And
it's not exactly a miracle that everything smells like roses,
since
there are perhaps a New Year's Day parade's worth of them
piled under her feet. And, yes, sometimes the celestial music
is
slightly out of tune or the trumpets are just obviously showing off.
But
it really doesn't matter about the roses or the guitars or the outfits
because
you find yourself mumbling,
I've
been bleeding a long time, a long long time.
And
it goes without saying that this is the lady
with
eyes like the western ocean and scars like Barranca
del Cobre
who
once whispered, "you may touch my feet my pilgrim
but
my thighs belong to Padre Nuestro en los
cielos,”
who fed you berries by the road by the river your sorrows looking up into the dream
of her face
by
the mountain by your childhood by the constellations,
who
even now weeps for your loneliness.
And
then, so as not to die here,
you
get up from the kneeler and retrace your hungry steps,
go
forward for the bread, though they’re stingy with the wine.
After,
in the unfinished basement, you share tamales
and abuelita chocolate and dancing
with
folks you'd swear you've seen before.
It’s
clear they knew your father better than you did, though they were born after he
died.
For
they knew to call him Carlos, which
you were not allowed to say.
Envoy
Adios, then, Juan Diego, but you know now where you
are if not yet who you are.
And,
perhaps, at least a little, why you came this way.
To
bear witness, to these, los
campesinos preciosos,
each
with a message from the lady,
for
the powers that be, for the white priests in dark robes--
the
future is flowers,
hiding
in a poor man's cloak.
*revised and re-posted from December 12, 2012; corrected from the later published version in New Crops from Old Fields: Eight Medievalist Poets. Edited by Oz Hardwick. York, UK: Stairwell Books, 2015, 89-91.
*revised and re-posted from December 12, 2012; corrected from the later published version in New Crops from Old Fields: Eight Medievalist Poets. Edited by Oz Hardwick. York, UK: Stairwell Books, 2015, 89-91.
Quite exuberant and lovely, Joe. Even the non-chocolate parts.
ReplyDeletetank you
ReplyDeleteWe've been there and viewed the tilma on the occasion of the beatification of Juan Diego. The devotion is palpable with many travelling there on their knees. Thank
ReplyDeleteyou for this meditation.
("There" is Mexico City.)