Our Lady of Guadalupe
Of course it would be to you—you, dark-haired, you, an image of you on the forearm of a girl that I loved for a second or three, some time between the nights by the ice counting rotations and the time the girl called me from the house of a woman she met while jailed. She would talk to higher men in exchange for a sheet to pull over her arms, over her shoulders for a few nights. Of course we did not count the rotations. Of course she ignored you on her arm despite my constant touching of the raised skin on nights during those seconds or three, despite you making the most sense out of all of this: about a woman, about nothing mystical, about nothing mythical.https://digitalcommons.butler.edu/onearth/1033/thumbnail.jp
