I Put a Spell on YouJohn Murillo
Before we make love, you ask me again to tell the story, something whispered years ago in another city, another woman’s smoke in my ear. You want to hear about Ghanaian sky, an open field, a little girl humming lullabies at dusk. How a hawk’s wing brushed her shoulder, muscled a talon-snatched two-year-old into the dark. You want to hear about the juju, rumors of roots worked by a bad man’s wife, the savannah the mistress collapsed in, her baby’s cries stretched like intestines across the sky. When I tell you what was told me, how after that day neither mistress nor child was ever seen, how villagers say some nights you can hear them rustling moonlight, your ring finger catches a shaft of curtain-cut neon, and I wonder what juju will be told on us, in which city, in whose dark.
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