Blink

Stone eyes

that see beyond the deadpan faces
fixed on the Bread held up high,

whose color and texture is that of
bones buried in the muddied
form of muck made after last week’s
downpour has crumbled earth;

whose stillness on Sabbath
mirrors the unspoken stories that came
before the storm, those that befell without witnesses,
in the corners of this barrio
only lighted by makeshift street lamps, within
the dark shade of trees, the soft walls of shacks

whose owner has multiplied grace
for mouths gaping on hunger’s account,
has taught altruism in a lesson of wood
and nails, is the Word

became flesh; blink.

And the people turn into salt.