Santa Muerte

She etches gently into my heart,
my chest expanding
beneath Her hand.

There’s nothing to fear.
All will be well.

Fear and worry
pull you off balance—
to find your step again,
let imagination rest.

She taps my head,
bones clinking,
rattled through with time.

Grandmother appears,
offering to stay beside me.
She takes my hand in hers,
leading me away
from the Death Saint.

No more death wishes, you hear?
They add up
just as surely as luck.

Her southern twang
erases the day.
I dissolve into needed sleep.

My soul,
whether coming or going,
matters less
than the task finished—
working through the night,
trying to hold back
time.

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