The Matriarch

The Matriarch

Halo’d by gilded cordόn,
finely detailed in white crochet,
graced by faith.

Wrapped tight in a bata,
plain and unadorned.
Kneeled in fallen petals.

Hands clasped in unspoken oraciones,
while beaded gems count out
the creed of a by gone man.

Children gather round,
cries of want and fear,
ringing out as the lord shines down.

Oh, Holy Mother,
guide us now,
mal espíritu,
Wraps it’s manos
round our necks...

And all I hear is your words.

“Cross your self, father, son, holy spirit.”

Tiny hands lost as they think of the boogie man.