Santa Muerte
forgive us
for
on stone
reed paper 
vellum
parchment
in script 
by moveable type
in scrolls 
in heavy bound books
on fire-borne data streams
through keyboards and screens
we have cheated on you
our most faithful lover
Santa Muerte

You promised us everything
from within robes of white and red
Gave us what we wanted
The close access to the edge between life and death
and then we went about
seeking immortality
as if death was to be feared
and not honored

We pray you are patient
and as you know us all too well
and are well enamored of what we’ve given you

our peace of mind and free will
our ability to walk away
our strong tongues
our reverent approach to your realm

We pray you will wait for us
for as long as we stray 
(all the while stroking
the skull-pillowed head
of our dreaming child)

We will come home sooner or later
leaving behind
the words that we once hoped
would thrill us past you

Come home to our private altars
where you sit with the piddling heaps
of what we had promised you
and with a smile of suffering
and clean absolution
take us in again

Santa Muerte
whether we choose to acknowledge it or not
we are yours
Santa Muerte

He looked at me
and told me what I couldn’t be,
though I was that and had been that, 
always.  Said, “If you don’t look it,
you’re not.”  And for him, 
that was that.  And for me,
as well.  He was wrong, and so
I put him behind me, and that
was that.

Another told me that because
I didn’t sound right, I wasn’t that.
“It’s that simple, that’s how you win,”
and that was that.  And for him, 
that was that and for me too, so when
I put him behind me because what I called win
was for me a win, and so he was wrong,
that was that.

And then another, and then another,
and then another said I was not 
the one, and for them that was that;
and for me too, almost, because I’d given them
that and now I was no longer that.
“It’s not you, it’s me,” they said, and for a while
I disbelieved but then I changed my mind
and put them behind me, and told myself
that was that.

Now, all those naysayers behind me
have been talking, and they’ve gotten to know
each other, and they call “Fraud!” and “Phony!”
in unison whenever I am quiet for a minute.  
And that’s that.  That’s what it is.  A chorus
of shit-talkers I half-agree with.  I say, “That…”
and then cannot complete, cannot compete
with their dismissal; though I dismissed them myself
once I know that saying “that was that” meant nothing
at all.  I’m pale and flat and dull and wrong, and that,
I gather, I believe, and I know, is that.