voodoo soul,
in the humid
wooded cabin on stilt
chicken-legs,
Baba Yaga
inside
with her gnarled knuckles.
Cafe lights glitter
in the Spanish moss,
ancient winds
still whisper through
the foggy swamps.
Owls chitter
after the little
crazy-haired girls
sleep,
the fan boats
float in green
majesty.
The mangrove roots
twist deep
into the earth,
kissing into
millions of years.
Baba Yaga
of the swamp
flicks her wrists
and her knuckles snap
and the earth sighs
deep in her bones.
The house creaks
above the frog-filled
water,
and the cat sleeps on the porch.
The breeze
breathes thank you
stirring the curtain's hem.
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