Shadows dance to forget the light
in this walled garden of dead,
city of crypts, long on ovens for baking
bones, short the grace to serve them.
The pinch-eyed woman at the shop
of spells could see I was one,
a doubter, naysayer, worse-
she saw in me a voodoo virgin.
In my hands I hold her doubt,
wrap it around my head, tie it
into a Tignon, my shield from angry spirits
a novice might call in error.
I draw the cypher from my coat, hold it
to a candle, carefully begin to chant
an incantation to call the spirits, ask favors,
break the sepulchral silence.
Plaster peels, leaves gashes
in stone skin, blood brick glistens,
threatens to expose her tomb.
I’ve come to ask a favor, Marie.
"Papa Legba, Lord of Loa,
call on da queen, Marie Laveau
ask her to bex dis bag-o-wire
dat brings dis dread fassy
Jah know I-man be good."
My pockets hold little to offer
a queen. Smokes and rum come hard,
beads and silver harder. I choose
a penny's sheen, my gift to the dead.
"Gris-gris work for me
bring me luck or let me be."
I drop my mambo gift, make my ticks,
X X X, and knock on each to seal
the wish. Rap! Rap! Rap! Comes back.
My body shakes, dances around ritual fires,
falls to holy ground. I am her voodoo doll.
Maybe the dead prefer rum.
© 2003 Jason C. Jones