Phoebe Prioleau
You built an altar
in your Harlem one-bedroom:
San Lázaro, el viejo Lázaro
straight from Havana
with hand-painted eyes
and halo of real gold, you told me.
He stood on your mantelpiece,
a figurine flanked by dollar bills and hard candies
your offerings to the saint of healing.
From his vantage, Lázaro saw it all:
swollen pill box, tubes of cream,
sofa where you spent your days and nights,
and you wearing nightgown, yellow rosary,
hair pulled back in a tight trenza.
You'd outlived your saint by twenty years.
At 93, your limbs weren't fit
to clean apartments like before.
In your two-language hybrid
you asked Lázaro for more.
103 would do. That would give you time
for cards with Marta and Miguel,
prayers for your sister, a few more novelas.
Perched on the portable commode,
your only seat,
I felt in holy space.
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