When we switch on the HDTV
comparing and contrasting 

the information garnered
from our iPhones and Galaxies,

sometimes there’s news
of attacks in La Jolla, 

in San Diego county
where the sharks love

the ladies floating in the sun,
with coconut oils streaming

iridescent colors 
off their burnished brown skin

into the warm, blue
bioluminescent waters.

Sometimes these news reports
go far as Louisville, Kentucky,

and once my beautiful Mamí
gets ahold of them

a Mobius strip of a prayer
chain, beginning 

with los Españoles, takes place—
in the form of phone calls

from Mamí and Papí,
and friends from their native land,

plus my sisters, and their school
classrooms and lunch ladies, 

of course, followed by los Latinos
from Cuba, Colombia, and Perú:

César, Antonio, Antonia, Gloria, 
Lucho, Luz, and Lourdes—

somewhere at this point
I’m thinking of food—

then there are the major generals 
of the St. Raphael Catholic Church, 

nestled between 
the gorgeous townships 

of Wellington and Strathmoor,
the little old women with bee-hive

blue hair styles who religiously
attend Eucharistic adoration,

and offer God to the world
with themselves in the bargain.

They are passing the news to Jesus 
that I’m dying of a shark attack

with a 20% chance of survival,
limbs hanging by shards of muscle,

while my poor, poor children 
who came along for Spring Break 

are missing large swaths 
of skin from brushing

against the shiver that attacked
us in 3 feet of water.

Sometimes prayer chains
are vehicles to keep

those best concerned
in the know

about every single thing
you do, as follows: 

“Well you know about
Fulanito, he’s got el diabetes,

and he’s—did you know about
he married Fulanita,

and the things she fed him?
Que asco!—anyway he had el Covi

tres veces este año, three times
this year, que pasooo?

and Fulanitaaaa!  Ay Dios!  
She was working the Pep Boys

before he got sick, siiiiiiii mi hija—
and their babies!  Dios mio!

Just don’t forget to pray for them.
So little—

Did you know he was bleeding
out his you-know-whaaaaa  

for twelve weeks after they told him
he could leave the hospital?  

Hostia!  Te lo puedes imaginar?
Can you imagine?”