long walks across the beach with Santa Muerte

I first stumbled upon the street dog on Christmas Day,

while walking along the coast of Ensenada, 

tangles of seaweed tickling my toes

every time I pressed my heels into the sand.

I sat down next to chewed watermelon rinds to nurse my Dos Equis,

thinking of home,

of gift wrap being ripped from presents,

of eggnog mustaches and broken traditions.

Frantic trumpets fought against ocean waves to establish a rhythm.

The salty sea breeze wafted notes of Mariachi music

and the faint stench of something rotting across the shore. 

Leaning back, I dug my elbows into the sand and accidentally

brushed my hand against matted fur.

I twisted around to see the mutt,

its paws facing heaven, 

exposing a bloated stomach covered by swarming flies. 

Fat with rot, 

its tongue protruded,

and as I gagged,

a rolled cigarette 

lolled out of its open mouth.

On New Year’s Eve,

dancing across the beach with sparklers 

I found the dog again.

It reminded me of a tourist on vacation:

a colored beach ball deflating by its side,

a newspaper placed over its body,

a pair of cheap sunglasses resting over its glassy eyes.

I thought of Santa Muerte 

of shrines for the dead,

of traditions reimagined. 

I gave the dog a Dos Equis and kept walking.

This poem was originally published by Sink Hollow in 2021.

Sink Hollow, Vol. 10, No. 1 [2021], Art. 1
https://issuu.com/sinkhollow/docs/sink_hollow_issue_10_final p. 13