mojo

talismanic words
the chants, the dance.
base emotions
turned by the poetstone
to a mettle beyond gold.
cold not to the touch
as they are, such,
and yet not what they were,
a strangely familiar fur
draping something in the distance
the path of least persistence
and I begin, with slow unsteady steps,
a dance of summoning.
for myself.

all rites reserved, all nights preserved
in an envelope of kisses missed
like a fist between the eyes,
catching you by surprise
and making you sit to consider
the wisdom of this confrontation.
find another road to the horizon.
bind another toad to the incantation.
I'm not afraid of the bogeywoman
but the proper princess who slips
her tongue between lips pressed
to a stone dropped into the cauldron
to draw out the spirit near it
and make it break its word.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.