The Flea Market
by: Romina Ramos
Originally published in The Bolton Review Issue 9: Rats & Revelry
This town is haunted by stained glass gods
and crawling with slithering saints,
but on the third Sunday of every month
the flea market comes. On this day
it is permitted to skip Morning Mass,
on this Sunday there is a different kind of
preaching. There are no bodies of lost prophets
but this is where Jesus is found. Here,
in this old cart selling evangelical barbecued
octopus, in the persistence of a man, haggling
down the price of a red BMX, in the smile
of a small girl, at this gift, this confirmation
of love. This is where faith is born. No naves
no pews, but this is where prayers are answered.
