All fall the virgin goes from house
to house. A tiny girl leads with a tinkling
bell, two champions carry the jewel-bright
shrine in a litter before a small crowd.
When she arrives at this night's stopping place
her hosts applauds. I chant, "rhubarb, rhubarb
rhubarb," when I don't know the words,
but I know the rosary and that was most of it.


My eyes stray to faces, the night gardens
and adobe walls but always come back to the shrine's
open door, shadowed in candle light,
and the hint of brilliance it frames. After the last
amen I am invited with the others
for steaming cinnamon tea and a slice of choyote.