Your ivory hair
shifts in the wind as you
perform songs of my ancestors,
the blues, the souls, the psalms...
conditioning your hands with
amber oil as if you could
conjure the spirits of the juniper trees
My arms folded, leaning under the shade of
the old schoolhouse, st john's root in my pocket
and red brick dust in my left shoe,
a pouting lip, a scornful eye...
better watch how you move, old girl,
Watch how you tell those lies, wretched charmer,
before I put your purse on the ground
and slide a strand of your hair
into a jar with cayenne pepper and railroad spikes
I take shattered glass, rusty nails,
dead cockroaches too...
there's mojo brimming and bubbling
like sourdough rise; I mutter to the ancestors,
and litter my buzzing mixture
around your feet,
unseen
You shake those two-bee strands on your head,
you gyrate for the town to see ...
men swear you're exotic,
women swear you're messing with spirits
that were meant to rest, I swear
there's a boiling war water sittin'
on my stove
Behind the rundown schoolhouse,
I call out to my Papa, offering rolled tobacco
and a small knife, sketching a vèvè under
the daylight, the sound of them people's
applause echoes the drum of his name
You bathe in their oos and ahs, but me
and my friends that hover above
my shoulders and between this life,
growl at your performance...
folk like you have no business sweeping
my feet or burning my nails, I chew
on my nails til it's time
I stay here leaning on this tree
arms folded, lips pouting,
til the sun kisses the earth
and the moon meets with the sky
til the man at the crossroads
approaches you at night