Our Lady of Whatever
       

I shall require a toolbox shrine, with mirrored walls,
stuffed with party mints and candles stoked against
my legendary wrath, a target practice ace of spades
with all four corners cl ipped, and an alias worth
embroidering on pillows, inking on knucklebones.
But I'm a late-blooming lady, and the best names
have been dealt—Our Lady of Iguanas, her reptile crown,
Our Lady of Prompt Succor, New Orleans' queen,
whose magic halts floodwaters at the chapel steps.
Our Lady of Blind River, ghosting by pirogue
to her cypress abode. Our Lady of Sorrows,
heart worn outside her body, her only joy in life
to weep. So many lakes. So many Ladies of the Lakes.
Maybe I could be Lake Pontchartrain's Lady
of the Longest Bridge, Lady of Cicada Tea Parties,
of Lighthearted Marvels, of Sand Mandalas
Reduced to Cerulean Ash. Our Lady of Shrinky Dinks.
Our Lady of Darkness who skips eclipses, Our Lady
of Crash Diets and Devoted Avoidance of the Occult,
Our Lady of the Hot Flash, of Fractals behind the Eyes,
Dia de las Deadlifts Lady, strong as a man.
Our Lady of Notebook Libations, the last few pages left blank.
Our Lady of Mystics, who arrives without knowing why,
who drifts, sometimes, with numbness and no purpose,
her intent awakened only when she lays down to rest.

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Copyright © 2018 Alison Pelegrin All rights reserved
from Our Lady of the Flood
Diode Editions
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission