“Ayudáme, Señor”

Her desperate faith
reached out from beneath
the sobbing. Unevenly,

the taxi slammed the breaks,
jammed her words
to avoid a collision
with Flor de Caña—the rum
that tries so hard to hold
Managua’s streets together;
to keep the night still
and distracted. Only this,

and the cross, dangling
in the rearview mirror,
could possibly keep voices smooth

and even, like the absolute
silence of the child
strewn across her lap,
eyes frozen open.