I want you to know
I thought of you today.
In the latin text: Imprimatur.
Approval. Sanctity.
In the crumbling stone across
the street, well loved cemetery.
We rolled the windows down
and recreated a story I once told you,
singing words in any other language.
This land was once so full of death,
and you once held it for me.
This is the first year the words have left me
and not returned. And yet I find myself
always speaking. Feeling. Addressing.
My skin reddens with warmth—when I
returned, the first time, did you notice it?
I am dreaming of conversion. No one
has been submerged, though, in the living
water. The priests sprinkle you, just a few
droplets, just to say it has been done.
Convenience. Simplicity. Not even a week
after I came back, you took us to the
monastery, walked us across the graves,
led us to that small hermitage where Thomas
penned all his letters, pleading for a listening
ear. Connection. Back on the island
I release my need to be understood.
They have opened the Chapel of Christ
in the old city. Capilla del Santo Cristo de la Salud.
A place to pray for healing.