And then Scott Wiggerman gave his great response to the painting with his poem Exorcism.

                                     Sleeping in the House of Saints

        Ðon’t you want to ask—

                                       Why must the  wife of the santero wear     

    earrings made of earth and wood?

By day, his women balance silence.

In the nicho, la Guadalupana wants

the sun, stands above the moon. 

Hers is the cloak of cold heaven,    

crown of December pearls. How beautiful

su mandoria,  body halo tipped almagre

through topaz heart of flame.  Mira:

Our Lady of the Rosary: He has carved her

                                    out of cottonwood, entwined the child

with its roots. The sadness of her face. 

The robe spinning ribbons and veins.

She cradles the kneeling world 

between candles and rainbow of God.

By night, in the chapel of their bedroom,

the wife of the saint-maker is unveiled,

a ruby at her center.  His fingers sculpt

her hair to juniper,  skin gessoes

to his touch. Paradise.  This, and then, this:  

                                    She is the perfumed altar of midnight.   

                                    He is the deepest moment of dark.

                                                Ðon’t you want to ask—

What must our lady suffer to wear

                                    earrings made of blood and  stars

-Andrea L. Watson

 Exorcism

She weaves a blanket, blue with birth-

red stars, wraps herself in it

like darkness veils la noche,

gazes upward and waits—

days, weeks, seasons.

Transfixed by the empty canopy

of blue, an azul stillness,

she does not see the shadow

pass over the desert—

but feels it like a breath.

Into her vision floats

an old priest with a cold eye,

the edge of his cassock frayed

like blueblack tailfeathers.

Then—an apparition, a trick—

with the same gray eye, a raven,

clothed in cleric’s rags,

a rosary dangling from his neck,

a tear of blood shaped

like a woven star on la cruz.

Her eardrums bleed,

her hair ravels into ropes.

She stares at the bird, spellbound,

prays so hard, she faints.

When she opens her eyes,

el cielo is turquoise blue

and peace glimmers everywhere—

no more reason to wait.

-Scott Wiggerman