Carved from a doleful prose with
her deceitful look and voodoo hips.
A mythical creature bearing the
resemblance of Medusa and
character of Marie Laveau. Patterns
embroidered in prismic hues, she mimics
a chant that cites emotional descent.
A quiet soliloquy recited on deserted
strands imitating a sonorous healing song.
Her presence tells of a sad tale told in
folk-lore stories by the fire at dawn.
Documented and read to school children.
An elegy now a mumbling gossip
amongst church yard folks who are
quick to judge and label her as evil,
wicked and shameless but run to her
for help in their moments of desperation.
Offering to pay large sums of money
for charms, healing medicine and advice.
Through the street she walks, sneers
and jeers embraced, daunting looks
and pointing fingers. Children mocking
and running away from her. With her face
lowered to the ground, she walks without
saying a word for she knows a truth now
scribbled in ancient parchments and hidden
behind the old school.
Abandoned in ruins, after the war
stripped naked for a cause, property
looted because of suspicion.
Her pride broke, innocence lost for a
worthless cause. A life lived in turmoil.
The marks on her skin tell a story
now passed on from generations.
The wounds that cripple and bind
her, tell of her history as a struggling
woman. A woman struggling to survive.
Angry, spiteful, bitter and bearing the
anger and pain of a thousand women.
Shamed by society, Ridiculed for what
she has become. A voodoo Queen.
Adorned with expensive ornaments,
charms and amulets for protection
smoking her pipe, pieces of gris-gris,
ouanga and voodoo dolls as a defense
mechanism. Strange incantations,
humming to her ancestors who have
now become her only friends.
A lonely life stack up away from everyone.
Sitting high in a shady throne
in her cave. Away from the world.
A perfect seclusion and solace
for voodoo. A title she has earned
over years and embraces fully.