Borrowed Saints
i sit behind the bodega counter,
breath trapped in wax and soft flicker
watch the old men tap pockets
for lotto dreams and loose change faith.
they light me when the landlord knocks too hard,
when the roaches dance too bold,
when the rent feels like a knife under the door.
i swallow the prayers like chiclets
sweet for a second, gone before dawn.
abuela calls my name over simmering beans,
tells the kids hush, hush, he listening
like i’m some holy wire tapped
straight to god’s ear.
i ain’t no miracle, mija.
i’m just borrowed light
a warm lie to keep the dark outside the door.
i hear the gossip slip under mattresses
baby jesus under titi carmen’s springs,
rats chewing faith at the corners.
i smell the cigar smoke floating up
promise carried in every puff,
sin curled soft in the ashtray.
still, i burn.
still, i stand watch
over scratched lotto slips,
over prayers paid in quarters,
over soft curses when the numbers don’t hit.
i ain’t no savior.
i’m just a borrowed saint,
a Harlem hush, a flicker in the dark
holding your secrets safe
‘til morning comes knocking.
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