Courtesy Bowers Museum, Santa Ana, CA
Lady, the good ones were on their knees
They know you and adore you
Those with bones not steel who bend
Came forward
I saw you with a shopping cart
Wire and small wheels
Your clothing in the square pink bag
You kept your Baby’s diapers in
You wore a surplus windproof jacket
Deck shoes, and a billed blue hat
You wondered why the tilma was so small
When Juan Diego’s covered to his knees
It covered him, and when the roses spilled
They saw your image there, and it was you
Beautiful Azteca woman
Not so worn out then
Your Son has risen from the tomb,
But since that day you’ve slept on many sidewalks—
You come down from the hill of roses
Live poorly in the house of summer
The crèche He slept in has been folded up,
Such is your timid power,
In a little plastic bag you carry—
Lady, good ones know it
The simple see you, magnificent your softness
Your summoned mercy, quick to answer anguish
For they can bend and have no pride
No keys but one
And with this key, one key
They open every door that leads to Him—
You could walk through and though you wear a crown
You wait until the last have entered