Maria Silveira
studies the stained glass,
the lambs and saints.
She kneels and bows,
the host fusing to her tongue
the holiness of her sex,
a scent of blossoms.
A day to be the heroine,
to be the Queen, St. Isabel.
Curls wound from rags cascade her back.
A mother-of-pearl crucifix from avo,
the long gown of satin and crocheted
lace from her mother's garment bag.
Beneath her dress, a field of flowers.
She glides down the aisle and onto the street,
a halo of glittering crown and velvet cape.
Side maids and sign bearers,
little queens wrapped in frothy lace
with missing front teeth flank her.
Along the boulevard they float
like angels without bodies
who wear white dresses.
Sweet seller ladies of the Altar Society
offer malasadas, plump and sugared.
Women balance baskets of sweet bread
sway to the music of the brass band.
Then comes the sopas,
a feast for all, of mint flavored stew
with meat that falls easy from the bone.