Anaïs Deal-Márquez

Maria Magdalena was From Xico

This is what you grow up knowing from the abuelitas at the mercado, 

before they point out how the white flowers are perfect this time of year, or how 

ants on the sidewalk means rain, and ask if you’ve seen 

how the chimal is braided into the arc for the church, para la santa.

Months of preparation go into deciding which fabric will be most elegant 

against the porcelain skin of our santa. The musicians and danzantes honor 

her in procession and ceremonia for days only resting at sunrise for a bowl 

of pozole, or a hot coffee, or an aguardiente.

When I’m five and Mami disappears for days at a time with her violin, 

I wonder if the men with the bull masks and the copal swallowed her whole. 

Dad holds my hand when we walk to the procession and the toritos jump out 

from behind the corner at night. His eyes are light that make me laugh.

We watch an orchestrated army of children, tías, abuelitos spend the day making 

a majestic carpet of multicolored sawdust that holds stories I can’t read yet. 

When Maria Magdalena turns the corner,  

she takes my breath like an offering.