Victorious Jesus Christ, who on the cross was defeated,
now defeat my enemy who is vanquished with me, in the
name of our Lord.
A common prayer to Santa Muerte.
My white skin out of place in this place
okay, call it what it is, this slum.
Tepito, Mexico City, late autumn.
I carry no wallet to be stolen or drugs to sell,
the prostitutes leave me unmolested.
I’ve come to pray at the feet of Santa Muerte,
a scythe-wielding skeleton draped in blood red
robes with a hollow-eyed grin. On her head,
a crown shines like new money. My needs are many.
This saint hears every prayer, accepts alms
in praise of harm, satisfaction guaranteed.
Criminals line up for hours to make her
accomplice, offer candles, flowers and cigars.
Santa Muerte likes her music loud, her dancing
dirty, her liquor straight and her sex rough.
She believes diamonds are a girl’s best friend,
flaunts them on every bony finger.
She says: Fuck that Guadalupe bitch, patron saint
of the blind eye. She takes your money,
offers Hail Mary’s, leaves you with nothing
to show for it. I am the chica assassin, accept