Baby wrapped in springtime blankets

Pram wheels tangled in early sunflowers

Here in the dump

Because the rest of her world

Is city cement

And the mother meets

With another daughter of the father

Not married to her mother

But father to her

Others of the family wander

Through piles of some good-looking trash

Picking out, maybe, a wooden Shaker chair

A roses and vines, maybe, Tiffany lamp

And the two young women

Talking about the best way

To interpret a deck of fifty-two

Miss the mother of the sister

Staring at the baby of the bastard

And instead of a wish

A curse twines with the air

Taking form from a whispering breath

Puffed out in the cool breeze

Floating along with healthy pollen

Curses that should be kisses

Doesn’t matter to her

That curses return

Her husband’s been stolen by the woman

Her daughter’s been seduced by her half-sister

And the baby sleeps innocently

Part of the hated family

And the words hit the infant’s earthly body

And all the mutra—urine—in the world

Cannot neutralize her words

That is the older woman’s power

But years in the future

The child, now a woman,

Finds the release

Calling upon her element

Powerful fire

Using the breath

Of the terrible worm

Sangre de Drago

A firewall to reverse the direction

Of the hated words

Haunting her for seven decades

And although it is near the end

And the infant is now the oldest one alive

She returns to the wasteland outside the city

Tosses the brown powder into the air

Murmuring the order to clear

Her beloved family

From what she believes

Crept through their lives


With kindness

Release us from this prison”

Perhaps only from the

So-called superstitious mind

But real and solid, nevertheless

And although the sky reveals

No rainbows or sun

As a good omen

An invisible lightness

Settles like an aura

Around this new old woman

And the blood of the future



© 2021 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)

IMAGE: Sangre de Drago powder