Sunday, April 24, 2011

The Visit to Marie LaVeaus'

The Jerusalem Rose lies
curled in a gray ball- under the
Devils' Shoelace and sharks teeth.
Powders for love, luck and misery.
under the saints of Haiti- for the lost
the barren, and the thieves.
Pick- lock oil and tangle lawyers tongue spells
remedies for the ages.
I lay down my money behind the beaded curtain,
for my palm to be read like a book.
Its' lines do not lie.
Her nails are grimy and her tee shirt
stained like the black flood line
that binds the city.
Her tired eyes peer into my folded flesh.
What mysteries to reveal?
My mother is weighty presence, a cord that even death
cannot cut.
She is pushing down on me clinging.
The reader says I must light white candles in bowls of water
and one for Lonely Saint of the flames to let her move on.
My callouses show I am stubborn and lost for love.
And do not heed the advice of others even her...
The scenes from the masquerade dance across the
table between us.
The Sun, the Wheel of Fortune, and the Knight of Swords
all turn up to try to show me, my hard-headedness,
will not allow to me prosper.
Later in the courtyard sun after the Hurricane and the Absinthe,
I look again into the mirror of my palm,
and long for an easy map,
something to untangle the lines.
Which way now? 

Monday, April 18, 2011

On Palm Sunday Morning

Picking my way through the vines
She caught my eye
I saw her in a flutter of blue 
Fit to clothe a saint
All the crushed Lapis in the sun 
Holding my breath 
I was willing her to stay 
A while longer on a Palm Sunday
Feathered grace 
In indigo