After 40 days, they return, crossing the Puente Romano
or wading barefoot through the Rio Tormes, red skirts lifted.
They wear scarves over scarves, braids, and golden rings,
brooches, beads, botonescharros, and flowering crowns.

Caballeros wait on the banks of the river, holding their breath, 
coins in their pockets, pants rolled up to their knees.
On this watery Monday, the mercado closes early –
Olives, pottery, jamón, wood carvings all tucked away.

They pass with the jingle of bells, the twirl of burning sage.
Mothers call to their niños, “Ven aqui. Ahora,” the host 
still clinging to their tongues, they clutch their children. 
Even the cobbled streets tremble. The women laugh

with wide mouths, dancing past the Convento de Ursula.
Nuns peer from windows, cross themselves, mouth 
Vaya por Dios, whisper prostitutas, putas. Beneath wool habits,
nipples stiffen – they tightly crisscross their legs, swallow their lips.

Meanwhile, the mujeres feast on hornitas and music, hombres
and wine. Soaring bells of the Torre de Gallo echo 
through the city of sand. On this Monday following Lent, 
the great stone turrets of the catedral hold up the sky.