I dreamt of seven serpents surrounding me
as I slept. They feast on my old flesh,
as they hiss Chicomecōātl calls you home.
In her xōchichināncalli  we sit among
the sunflowers and maize—she nourishes me
with the comfort food of my youth—beans
and squash, cacao, and ripe red chili peppers.
I let the pulque blossom and burn my throat
She is painted in ochre, wears my old ēhuatl 
that I have been shedding this past year—
sacrifices I didn’t know I was making until
I was rooting in the earth—planted, sleeping.
I am her grain, sprouting and returning to seed—
I will always emerge for her. She shields me with
the sun—I am never alone.
 Nahuatl for garden
 Nahuatl for skin
Marisa is a poet, bruja, spirit companion, and contributing writer for Pussy Magic.
Growing up in the Southwest influenced her magickal practices, and she considers herself a kitchen witch. In her free time, she enjoys reading about the Fae Folk, scandals in Old Hollywood, and the spirits of the sea. She is obsessed with kitschy motels in the desert, mermaids, vampires, and pinups. In her twenties she attended UEA in England, and misses being able to sit in pubs, people watch, and write.
You can find her on Instagram, Tumblr, and Twitter @thesweetmaris.