JENELLE SAMUELS
Her voice is a crackle
whip
slapping the shrill air
of her revival church-ground
where yellow poincianas
rain
flowers
around
all those who sit,
stray dogs
by our feet
awaiting the fruit of her knowledge.
She emerges,
blue polka dot dress,
knees blackened with ash.
when she
steps
the earth rattles.
Black mint oil,
stout,
brown-skinned woman,
spilling into the space,
grey hair wrapped
in black
herbs sticking out
north, south,
east pointed at me
face furrowed,
but not angry,
as she moves my chair
out of the sun to in front
of her church,
the faded blue-green like
sea foam.
She calls me in,
asks me to spin two
times
where’s your baby
dead I say
Don’’t worry, she never like the father
She will come back
There is a pile next to us,
candle
blue
healing
red
you must love yourself
black
the night sky
white
the light.
