The eyes of a poet are directly connected to the hands which pen the experience. In her recent poem (written 03/22/03) Cristy Ramirez paints a very unique portrait. - poetheart 04/22/03
Streets. Curbs. Doors. Bars.
The smell of gas and stale beer.
The men leaning against buildings,
Smiling wide gold-toothed grins.
The market, la marketa.
Indian women in long dresses.
Babies on their backs, squinting from the sun.
They were peddling carved crucifixes-
Jesus outstretched on the cross,
Selling for fourteen dollars.
Dark eyed children with straight black hair,
Barefoot and hungry.
They ask for pocket change with a small smile,
And I will never know the depths of their eyes.
I walked in the church there,
The air thick with faith and unanswered prayers.
I humbled myself before the Sacred Heart,
And sat among women old before their time,
Clutching smooth, dark rosary beads.
I saw the Virgincita’s wan face
Aglow from the light of a hundred candles.
Each one flickering a prayer, a novena.
“Hail Mary full of grace, will we eat today?”
Crossing the bridge,
Jesus in my bag, prayers on my lips,
No change in my pocket.
Someone ate today.
A heavy heart, and tired eyes
My only true souvenirs.
by Cristy Ramirez