For the Altar You Won't Admit You Have.

Two brass candleholders, sinner. Heavy at the base, polished gold, the kind of object that pretends to be decor and is *not.* You set these on the dresser next to a saint card and a small bowl of salt and you tell people *oh I just liked them at the antique store.* Nobody's fooled. The brass tarnishes pretty over time. Light tapers in them on a Thursday. The flame doubles in the metal. Saint Rita sees you. She's not telling.

A small square of black velvet, my creature — heavy, soft, the color of the sky over the parkway at 2am. You drape it over the dresser top, the side table, the corner of the desk. Whatever was *just a surface* becomes *a small place where a thing happens.* Set the candles on it. Set the abalone shell on it. Set the deck on it during a reading. The velvet drinks the light. Saint Rita approves of presentation.

An abalone shell, my creature — big enough to fit in two cupped palms, opalescent inside, blue-green-pink shifting depending on the light. You catch the ash from the sage in it. You catch the ash from the palo santo in it. You catch the ash from the cigarette you smoke at the kitchen table after a hard call in it, *Madonn',* I won't tell. The shell came from the ocean. Sit it on the altar. It remembers.

White sage, sweet thing. The bundle is tied with red string and it smells like the dry side of a forest. Light the end. Let it catch. Blow it out so it smolders. Walk it through the apartment after the ex moves out, after his mother visits, after the bad week. The smoke curls. The room shifts. Buy ethically sourced — the brand matters, the plant matters, ask the bundle who it came from. Saint Rita appreciates the manners.

Palo santo, my child — the holy wood from Peru. Smells sweeter than sage, woodier, like a church mixed with a campfire. Light one stick, let it catch, blow it out, walk it slow through the room. The smoke is small and curling and the smell stays in the curtains for a day. Use this when sage feels too dramatic — palo santo is the saint card you light on a Wednesday. Buy ethically sourced. The wood matters. The tree matters.

Little clear stands, sinner — the kind that hold a baseball card or a postcard or a saint card upright. Six in a pack. The point is dignity. A saint card flat on the dresser is a saint card you forgot. A saint card upright is a saint card you're *answering to.* Set Saint Rita up. Set Saint Anthony up. Set the one you made up for your sister up. They watch the room. The room watches back.

An assortment, sweet thing. Saint Rita, Saint Anthony, Saint Jude, Saint Michael, Saint Therese — laminated little cards with the prayer printed on the back. You don't have to be Catholic. You don't have to be *anything.* You set the cards in the stands, you read the prayers once out loud on a Sunday, and the saints take a meeting. They're not picky. My Sicilian mother kept twenty of them in a kitchen drawer next to the rosary and the lighter.