Not like you think, but yes, he’s upside down.
St. Joseph faces my childhood window.
The internet says he should face
what must be moved.
My mom buried him 20 years ago to sell our house.
I use the same trowel to plant seeds in the garden.
There must be something to it,
holy intervention,
because the grass where he’s buried
stays green when July browns the fields.
But the house never sold & the only one
who hasn’t stopped moving is me.
My mom prays to St. Anthony when I don’t text back.
She believes in woo woo like I trust in vanishing points.
I pack her remedies with me wherever I go.
I’ve beckoned St. Anthony when love is lost
& I can’t be found. In church
I read Revelations, as a kid, while everyone prayed the rosary.
Forgive me, mother, for I often forget to text back.
Glory be to the suitcase, the postcard, & care package.
I buy a St. Christopher medal for my partner
when his flights get cancelled three times in a row.
I know I should dig St. Joseph up,
but some things are better unmoved.
A novena candle melted in my car, the pink wax filled each corner
of a cardboard moving box & honeycombed the bubble wrap.
Our Lady of Perpetual Wandering,
should I settle like this wax or overflow?
Listen to Laura Villareal read her poem here
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