Maria, give us camphor.
A saint should give real things

since she is not like us. A saint
should feed like manioc. Donna

Maria, let us line up
at your skin. A saint should not be

among us the only one dressed.
How should your blue remind me?

There’s only a grate of sky
at the showers where my small

sulfurous cake could be
precious heel of you, delicate

floating, I must touch and
touch, palms of lather, escape

me and let it be real palms
and guava, cicadas in my dream

where if I step into your sight,
the loan of my body will be paid.