The church is empty.
Silent pews of shining wood
reflect the mid-afternoon light
of stained-glass window.
Candles flicker on the altar.
Some have burned out.
Have they been burning for you,
Cesar, as you lie weak in your bed,
your fast to focus attention
on our poisoned food,
now almost a month old?
I search for people---where is he now?
The rectory door, behind the
closely trimmed hedge,
is locked. I start my car.
In town, at a Mexican restaurant
(where I stuff my face),
I learn that he is at his compound,
weak, sick, thin.
I follow directions
and make my way west of town
to the media tent.
Jesse Jackson has come and