At the Preparación

Mothers will always ask about the state of your tranquility.

Every block had a cemi. Someone who wasn’t afraid of being
      taken from the present. Her name was usually Cuca.

To get to the preparación you have to go on a mission. Nothing
      impossible, but nothing that you could repeat.

When you get to the palm tree on the corner, back up and take a
      left. You know there are no palm trees in the street, so you
      take a right.

A mute Siamese cat will dare you with a quick scurry into
      Gaddafi’s.
Go left, again, but just a chín.
Go right, again, but just a chín.

Turn slow at the third corner, as if you were an uptown eclipse,
an indecisive twilight, a fix ready to burn.

When you feel a follicle of sweat grovel down your back, you
      have arrived.

You will see an altar in the living room.
The altar should be stacked with some
things you might need to start your day.

Tato Brujo will have his back toward you.
Make sure that he’s facing San Lazaro.
Make sure his chants trumpet the rain’s insistence.

When the preparación begins, they will pencil your wish on a
slip of brown paper bag, and one by one they will dip your
real name in a mug of honey.

You tell the Bruja, I could use a blessing. She pushes up and says,
      I walked a long way, left dust tracks on the road, all the
       poems you wrote are stories I done told.

You’ve seen that moment: a clap, an instant, a jab, a pair of
      hands soaked in rubbing alcohol, a flame, a vicious blue.

The fire you can make.
The light, not so much.

You swear that you can see through walls.
As much as you know, you can’t know.

Yo, Nester says, tell her to leave me alone, man.

Campeche’s painting of Jesús Cristo looks at Petey with a
      sketch eye.

Throw this coconut over your shoulder, the Bruja will say. Make
       sure you throw it high, so it splatters into a million little
       pieces, and tell me which piece is looking back at you.