Healing Ritual by Lisa M. Bradley
Voodoo pendant removed
from around my neck —
Erzulie Freda, spirit of love —
I lie in the impersonal embrace of the MRI.
Cold, disease-laden air pricks my toes.
The hair on my legs waves
with the metallic twinge
of the doctor's voice over the intercom.
Still as in the tomb,
I wait while the primitive techno racket
ricochets around my head —
Ogoun, warrior spirit,
brandishing his machete at my illness.
Earplugs dampen the din,
adding to the cryptic effect,
as I stare at the sarcophagic ceiling
mere inches from my pinched face.
When I come out weak —
Hobbling Legba liminal at the crossroads —
Erzulie Freda dangles between my breasts again.
The vain loa licks the sweat
slicking my skin,
dances, demanding, under my dampened gown,
but cannot get in.
Something else has mounted me.