My grandmother keeps statues of saints in her bedroom.
They line up on the edge of her shelves
and I can’t help but think they sigh to her
one of the only loves she has left.
When her husband died
I imagine she spoke to them, asking how to be a single mother
and why do all the good things in my life leave.
and maybe they answered back,
took her young woman eyes and shut them deep
deep in the way that only saints can do.
When I go into her room, it’s not the Spanish television I hear,
but the saints on her shelves, murmuring to my grandma,
the blue light moving through the windows,
while she listens to the only love she has left.