Come into
My witch’s cauldron
big, black pot
with iron, clawed legs
and a wide base, for rooting down down
Down into a fiery pit.
Brewing, stewing, steaming and rising,
swirling, twirling, bubbling and oozing.
Step into
my curandera’s cocina
where, leaping frogs, slithering lizards
and reptiles
with pitch-forked tongues
rest dreamily as one wandering eye
marks the time
of fluttering butterflies
and creeping beetles,
an Earthly, potent magic
assaults the senses.
Pungent, putrid, and foul smelling,
Fetid, fragrant and divine,
aromas
of the sacred and the profane.
Ride with me
on my bruja’s highway
the twisting turns and angular perceptions
a fluidity of space
as flying forms
evolve in the night
and as we
blast on through
to the other side.
Walk with me
on my shaman’s land
holding my hand, stroking my cheek
and whispering words
of an uncommon language,
of places too celestial to tell
of a world too godly for thought
and of an existence deeply rooted and tied
to all that is
painful, joyful and complete
sad, excruciating and extreme
whole.
