HOLY WEEK

Holy Thursday nights. Large candles shine
climbing the hillside of San Bartolomé.
Girls toss stockings to rowdy boyfriends
                returning from drinking.

The Virgin with daggers seems to have left
some criminal den, wounded, without honor.
Her crown of pearls weighs more than Oblivion,
                more than her heart.

They dance, sway her like a feather. With jewels,
her figure shines like the April moon.
The Lady seems to have taken pills
                mixed with anise.

Magistrates, priests, altar  boys, penitents
move in procession. The crowd speaks Latin.
The shopkeeper's daughter, a smiling houri
                draws back the curtain.

Close to the house of the Four Balconies,
an angel disguised as a fatal manola
solemnly places her floral mantilla
                over the mayor.