HEXED BY AND HEXING A WITCH OF WORDS

By Vincent De Souza

In search of a single act, or juju to cast you away,

I name my first spell, When Words Become Sorrow.

Arcing hands, I sign shapes of interlocking triangles -

it shrinks you into an ex-god, ex-lover, ex-brutaliser.

When I turned into a penny-sweet-machine dispenser

you filled my metal belly with worn-down oxidised coins;

you shook tangle-bead hair, your mouth emitted lightning.

Charmed by the fable of a doll’s house, its scaled adventure,

I sensed a code of artful confusion, litany of loose meanings.

Paraphernalia to expel you is placed tactically upon the floor:

I put three black candles in a ring, encircle them with powder.

I tap dust on my shoulders and head and grind red bell pepper;

a bowl is filled with vinegar. I carefully cut a section of paper.

With karmic grains, I write your title in capitals: LANGUAGE.

The sheet is sunk into the bowl and weighted down with a stone;

I summon up anhinga, the South American black devil bird of ire.

I crush her discarded egg in a crucible - pure pummelled fecundity;

I lick a forefinger, dip it in her dried unborn young, a deified totem.

A narcosis to rub into gums of my upper teeth. Intense visualisation.

So I cry, I yell. In fever-pitch of shaking rage, I sanction exorcism;

I pity each letter after letter of you. I offer up my hysterical sorcery.

A shamanic deed is done - voodoo drums mute-disable expression.

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