Our saints, unlike us, live on offerings of fire.

I knelt and lit three candles,
lost in the streets of Borges.

Who will sit with you in the burning room?
Who will admit you?

There was no one to count the hours with at La Recoleta—

city of the dead, of mausoleums with marble staircases
for those who will rise one day.

Among roses and rosaries
the mind forgets itself.

My life, with each candle, sparked on the altar—

spilled over gently.
I let the wax burn my knees

but I knew how to stand in the empty church.
Without God or pity.