In the hollow of a rock,
unboned of silver long ago,
is a shrine to a terra-cotta skinned girl

Guadeloupe,
she of the Rocky summit;
leave a candle flickering and a flower

descend as hummingbirds
lodge in crooks of Juniper,
cold-blooded things, slow as unwound clocks

As night sidles down hillsides
churchyard shadows and Christ,
tourists rise from wrought-iron benches

Pause for a procession
of Penitentes,
knees raw from the ascent to Santa Prisca

They carry infants
too young to name,
their labored breaths like prayers