In autumn, I learn to forever break bad luck.
As a hand lay on my stomach, I remember what happened
before: the way I was taught
to soundly build a church from calcified stone.
A hot palm rests on the new danger that slowly bubbles
where the child once was. I sanctuary and begin
to slightly arc my mouth; it bends the storm
above my head until it makes a haven of its own rain.
My tongue is a plush aisle through which to gently
lead the holy to the back of my throat.
Three women braid into a wind that rushes me. We bridge
our voices. Opalesce our breaths. This is what we do
to calmly trouble the water.
We gospel from the base of me until blood spills from
the flesh rock. We loudly echo in my womb. We almost
forget to quietly watch the way
a broken curse weeps and pleads for mercy.
