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Santa Muerte, I cannot pluck banjo

strings like Sal, nor compose on a guitar


like my brother. I do have magic, though,

of a different sort. I scrawl in the air


and the words jell and congeal. Even now,

Dama del Mar, with husky, haughty lips,


I reel across the deck each time we plough

through ten foot swells; each time salt water drips


in my eyes while sliding down swales to surge

up each peak. Below, in the engine room,


womb warm and sacred, one of your altars,

heart and cunt of this boat, keeps beat: gale’s dirge,


squall’s lament. Make this submarine my tomb

and I will gladly play shaman to sailors.