The Good Voodoo

Peter Burzynski

You will find me
parallel to the temple’s
dead-crusted façade
where you last slept
under the black tufts
of sky.  Speak.

Don’t try to fool me,
usurper.  You with brandished
teeth, rhinestone condoms,
unpeeling your clay eyes.

Tell me who
is your devil
and why.  You’ve
eight seconds
and twenty words.
Why?   Very good.

I understand.  Here
break these bones,
mix these feathers
in, add some blood
(preferably reptilian)
shake and serve
over ice.  Drink.