The Dozen Virgins Of Guadalupe Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The dozen Virgins of Guadalupe may have to make
A church out of my garage—
I have them in my house right now: in the foyer,
Atop the fireplace,
On the cabinets above the tiny kitchen—not as to make
A sorority of religious artifacts, but as fetishes
Meant to collect you—
I even have Cuban dinero underneath the dresses of
One of them—all of it meant as some sort of Santeria
To steal you from your husband
Who already knows voodoo—and, according to your
Aunt Mierna, paid for black magic to win you
Back to him—and to birth a child from you—
I guess that I see now that I am not very clever,
But I keep at it going down into the night, drinking
A couple glasses of rum before my fair share of
Another school day—
Trying to resurrect that love that could never burn out
As it never truly did start a fire—we just met
In a fruit market, I bought you gold, and we made love
Periodically for a year and a half, before it petered
Out and I found another woman—and you stayed with
Him,
As the flying monkeys came down to rest in the forest
To look down upon a scarecrow who didn't have the brains
To be afraid.