They found her under the Marlton Pike overpass, alongside train yard tracks. A frozen, joker-red grin. One of many zombie-eyed banshees calmed by vialed crystals of enterprising pimps.
Aurora-light dreaming Vilma, never emerged from Camden’s coordinates: 39.9400° N, 75.1050° W
Wasn’t a tambourine-rhythmed Latina shouting,
Yo sé que Cristo viene, y espero su venida.
y el que no está preparado con El no va pa’ arriba.
Pa’ arriba, pa’ arriba, pa’ arriba y no pa’ bajo subiendo, subiendo, subiendo y no bajando.
Dog-eared bibles in tow, denied the store-front Jesus-gatherers with her haughty, Boricua pride.
Vilma oiled her forehead and nape—endured the burn.
Withstood the uncomfortable for hot-combed hair.
Wilfredo tricked her on Federal Street and Marlton Pike.
A Tuesday-night contrast to chaliced-cup Sunday wine.
Thin as white-wafer sacraments.
Kramer Hill Catholicism.
Closed her China eyes and conjured up the scent of stale breath and Brut.
Take her sin, sad-eyed Jesus.
Take her homage candle, cross-hangin Jesus.
Listen to the many of her men, Father Patrick Connolly
Ten rote Our Father’s; Five staccato Hail Mary’s
Warm, navy-velvet car seat awaited, Wilfredo inside.
Vilma, walking slower this time, hard-hearted, fear-filled.
Vilma, wishing she could travel to the Northern Lights of Yukon.
So catch her in that green and purple light; take her from her concrete-cold misery, God.
Before Tuesday appears once again.