To My Cousin, Nita Frances Poem by Sandy Fulton

Santa Juanita Francisca. Cousin, sister, closer-than-flesh.
Stillness, silence.
Silence and simplicity. Siesta.
A burro, a little cactus. The sound of pastels sissing, scraping
on gray paper. The silence. The peace.

Santa Francisca, the saint who was neverborn.
For your sisters, be born!
The stillness. A burro. A little cactus.
The warm air
and pastels on gray paper.

Saint Frances, your stigmata are real enough: monthly blood
In the fertile cell unfolding.
Contractions. The contract of our kind
with God-the-Creator.

Now wipe dazzled eyes, little saint. See—
the stigmata are real enough, but not all.

All, must be your vision.
The burro. The cactus. The little home,
to be wandered from. Animals, the little flowers.
Warm air. Peace, silence, simplicity.

All, must be your denied sainthood,
your freedom to be,
to love, to love the little things.
the stillness, the silence,
freedom—
to love God the Creator—yourself.

All, must be your artist's deft, calm fingers, the seeing eye,
the pastels, click-hiss on gray paper,
on white paper,
on canvas,
on the city wall,
on the broad back of the world itself,
waiting to be painted upon!
Out, out into the stellar universe,
thence to begin again.
Your design. Your art.
A Creator's hands unfolding.
Neverending.

Saint Frances, Juanita Frances,
cousin, sister, more-than-flesh,
why lie starving in your rich man's house
when all this is yours to inherit?

Be tempted, Saint Frances. Be tempted!