Poetry By Cassie Leone

Will Fisher CC




poem for santa muerte

(if you listen to the whispers of nodding 
petals, you might overhear a piecemeal psalm:)
some “catholics” worship a secret saint— 
you can see her in the shadow of santos. 

i used to be afraid of death because i didn’t know 
what it would look like when it arrived. or where
i would go, or maybe i am afraid of unexpected pain— 

i collected many idols, hoping one would listen. 
every day, from the top of my dresser 
they shiver & moan when i pull out the drawers 
to search for pants, bras & socks. no wonder

shopkeepers don’t stock her, i had to make her--
a papier-mache skeleton woman, la flaquita 
patron saint of downtrodden people, they say. for her 
body, i used air-dry clay from shop 99¢ and with a wet brush 
i smoothed away my finger marks. in the holes of her skull 
i pressed two coins for eyes. yes, on one side 
no, on the other. for breath, i shotgunned a cloud 
of smoke & her chest began to expand. 

she puffed out perfect rings & from the early morning 
streets and alleyways, all of last night’s lost clothing assembled 
into her mantle, which rivaled earth’s collective butterflies. 

& it was butterflies that showed me how 
to hold her hand. to alight at her nearness 
because it means we’re alive despite thorniness. 
butterflies which seem to wink & say: 
we are all briefly a brilliant swallowtail kissing a rose 
& will all be snug-as-a-bug in next year’s soil.

​

​
Cassie Leone: She is a wolf. He is a wheel. They are a rose opening.