[prayer to san francisco de asís]

the brothel girl in the mirror coos back at me.
she reminds me not to curse her ill fate, for
in the mirror, nimbus brilliance. outside her

door, his sandpaper hands down his pants.
why his grunts still startle us, after all this time:
quiet, a phantom limb, its itching quite unbearable.

even now, amputation’s romance. she lays
to rest our missing pieces, tucks them in,
and whispers a prayer. on the ninth day,

novena. on the fortieth day, rosary, offered
to the patron saint against solitary death.
with such elegance, these forlorn gestures.

the door, pulled from its hinges.