This is another poem on a semi-religious subject.
You must imagine that a figure of the Saint, or Santo,
you've seen lots of them out here,
has not been doing its best for the household in question
and measures are taken.
It's spoken by one of the children in the household.
It's called "Santo."
Francisco on shelf, wreathed in dusty wax roses,
for weeks and weeks hadn't been himself,
making no day come true by answering a prayer,
just dully standing there.
What did our grandma do?
She painted his beard black and rinsed the roses clean then
hid his rags in half a new red satin cloak,
renaming him Martin.
Next week the baby spoke, Juan sent a photograph
on board his submarine, Aunt Concha
went to cook downtown at the hotel,
the sick white dog got well, and that was all it took.