"Santa Muerte" [by Allison Contey]

Between opening and closing
                your lips—stones
as gathered from the plain
                as commanded by the angel
as found in the river, smooth
               as ancient warning, carved
as black lava hardens
               as in the mausoleum
as a hexagonal crypt, floretum
               as you, transformed, circle
as an arc forms in the sky
               as the stand bows its head
                      as the snow falls and time unwinds
                                 one more hour one more day. 

-- Allison Contey