La Catrina’s teeth are tucked all over streets of Mexico; between cobblestones, vendor stands. Behind smoke-drenched sheets sweeping a breeze heavy with salt, toda la sal, rimmed glasses we lift up, arriba! her white teeth shine down from shrines, sculptures, paintings propped on rafters. Glass down on table, abajo, a grounding tap, a hollow call to her company, hat tipped, dressed even in death; the streets are blinded by her skirts, red on blue, on white mixed with subtropic sun, no wonder she doesn’t have eyes, it’s too easy to be blinded, she knows. Plus her grin angles just right, reaches out to all, al centro. The bodies in Mexico form a glass circle, clink tequila shots, drink her smile, hollow bones, eternal hole, al dentro, assimilate--it is a cycle of toleration, repetition as ritual get used to the glow, arriba, abajo, al centro, like a dark glow of dusk shining on pane: Al dentro.