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When the saint died, her best friend and confessor
cut off her hand. (What are friends for?) The shrine
at Ronda keeps it as a sacred treasure,
covered with glass and gold. I can’t assign
a special magic to those long-dead fingers,
lacking the power or the will to bless.
But with the faithful some enchantment lingers
over the bones, some touch of holiness
that once informed a living heart. I know
the spell I feel here will not come outside
with me, will never cheer me in the dark,
but for Teresa’s lovers, every tree
breathes miracles, and Ronda’s grassy park
abounds in babies whose young mothers planned
their nursery colors once they touched her hand.

This poem is the winner of Plough’s 2025 Rhina Espaillat Poetry Award.