In the Basilica de la Soledad in Oaxaca

Trebor Healey

I think her look was one of disdain
I'll never be sure
She was walking on her knees
and I was sitting in a pew
fingering my 3-peso Virgin de la Soledad medal
hoping for miracles
as I looked about me at the bloodied saints and
gold-leafed Spanish baroque columns.
I'd always idealized Indians before I saw her
I almost concluded:
"Old catholic ladies of that sort are the same everywhere; they just don't approve."
But what's the use of that judgment?
What do I learn making it?
I've only confirmed something, not learned anything new
That didn't work when I was 14 holding the white candle of Confirmation
Why should it work for my trip to Oaxaca a whole lifetime later?

She was beautiful and simple
and I don't know her mind
I only remember
the dignity of her long, gray hair
the frayed, green and white checkered housedress
barefoot, but feet as good and tough as any shoe
She'd have a million reasons to despise me
A white man with enough money to travel
expecting to be welcomed everywhere
I thought then of going back in to join her on my knees
but feared that might offend her more
-as if to presume
Besides, I was too proud and self-conscious to crawl on my knees after her

So I went out and looked for boys in the parks
who would be willing to accept me,
to make me feel welcome in the world
in Oaxaca
in their world
They could make me feel Mexican for a brief spell
Then maybe I could go back and find the old woman
and in my best Spanish
tell her:
"I just made love with a young Mexican boy and he was beautiful."
In my madness
believing somehow she might understand
my odd way
of imploring: "I love you. Will you love me?"