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Lee Ann Pingel La Madonna de las Naranjas It is Christmas Eve in the desert. Not the desert of Palestine or Egypt or even the desert of my heart, though it is one. This is the desert of privilege and poverty, playground and prison. By which I mean if your name is Jimenez or Torres or Ramos, you are going nowhere unless it’s to México when your cousin who works lawns has enough money for gas. By which I mean if your name is Myers or Johnson or White, you live behind ramparts and gates fifteen feet high, and if you are going somewhere it is to Jackson Hole for the summer or maybe to Gelson’s for marrons glacés or maybe, just maybe, to church, like me, driving past miles of walls, some softened with oleander or palms, some softened with orange trees, heavy with midwinter fruit no one but the grackles will harvest. Nothing will grow in the hot sand of my self. I cannot find the Madonna in this church that projects prayers on a screen above the altar, clip art of the Christ child smiling down at the crêche. 196

Profile for Mojave River Media

Mojave River Review spring/summer 2019  

The Mojave River Review spring/summer 2019 issue spotlights superb poetry and prose by brilliant contributors from around the globe. Enjoy 2...

Mojave River Review spring/summer 2019  

The Mojave River Review spring/summer 2019 issue spotlights superb poetry and prose by brilliant contributors from around the globe. Enjoy 2...

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