Santa Muerte Altar
Britni Newton
Another snowy morning, I watch the cat drink water from my Santa Muerte altar. Bits of
processed prawns dangling from his curly whiskers. A pink nosed sniff of melted white candles
and chipped black tourmaline. He dips a paw into the caramel sauce of the flan offered, a quick
lick, and moves on. He prefers something more savory.
Melancholy, I choose the bittersweet search for myself. Comfort in being surrounded by
reminders of the cultures that cradled me, while pinned under the weight of a British surname
that I don’t identify-
with the smooth sound of Haitian Creole and sultry smell of a Tampa cigar. Mouthful of old
clothes, ropa vieja. Stone streets blanketed with humanity and humidity. Shaded by green palm
leaves, Havana meets Mumbai. Old uncles sell mangos and plàtanos.
Two drops of Florida Water to a mop bucket. The scent of citrus makes me homesick, reflective.
I light a stick of Palo Santo and give her a fresh glass. Acceptance is a form of washing salt from
the abandonment wound.
Britni Newton
Britni (she/her) is a creative writing graduate student and freelance writer. She’s deeply inspired by both her early exposure to a variety of cultures while growing up in Tampa, Florida as well as the folklore and superstitions passed down to her by her late great-grandmother, Marie – an avid storyteller originally from the mountains of Appalachia. Her work is published or forthcoming in Ghost Girls Zine and Persephone’s Fruit.