At Mama Silva's

At the tail end of the night

Cement’s too gritty on your back

And fog blinds the alleys

South of Spring Street.

So you creak to your feet

Wrap that greasy blanket round your shoulders

And drag yourself down to Mama Silva’s.

Catty corner from the mission

Next to the barred-up liquor store

She’s open all the time.

Crack heads and knife fights

And sirens in the night: no matter.

Mama Silva just goes on.

Light from her window full of flowers

Washes down the puddles on the street.

Blue beads chatter in her doorway.

You shrug off the blanket

Just like a snake shedding skin

And you step into her sanctuary.

The sign out front says Botanica-Yerberia

But maybe she’s a healer, maybe not.

The front room smells of herbs and incense.

There’s Jesus bleeding and Virgins weeping

And heads on the wall staring

As you slip through the curtain of beads.

In the back room no one talks about

You sink into warmth and sweet tea

And her voice like honey on a hot morning.

Candlelight flickers as you curl on the floor

And the rustle of wings

And the whispers from all her corners

Sing you off to sleep again

So when Mama Silva takes her price

You never feel the pain.

Behind the Scenes: I used to teach night classes at a college near downtown LA. On my way home, I traveled through dark streets where shadowy people drifted down alleys and past boarded up shop windows. But there'd be the occasional burst of light from a little shop like this one, keeping strange hours for the people of the night. Mama Silva also figures in several of my urban fantasy stories set in the fictional southwestern city of Soledad.