They tell us he died, arms lifted –
Not in surrender, but holding the host high:
“Esta es mi cuerpo,
Esta es mi sangre”
And the three jangles of the bells
Coincided with the sudden stutter of gunfire.
A bright rose bloomed on white vestments.
On the altar he slumped –
Arms folded around the large bouquet
Sprouting on alb and linen.
We stand in the deep cool outside San Fernando
(As his flock stood around him that day,
Waiting for grace.)
We sing a hymn in our faltering voices
Drowned by the traffic
And stone strongholds of commerce.
Our prayers, mostly silent,
Home to the blue sky
As we hold white tapers
Whose ghost flames dance in the soft breeze –
Almost invisible from so much daylight.
The small tongues of fire,
Weightless as a rose petal,
Light as a eucharist,
Murmurs so softly our hope – Paz.
In the small crowd at the vigil
Sleeping in a papoose pack,
A blond child nods, but does not awaken
As he is shifted from his father’s back
To his mother’ s arms.
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