Cursed – Amy Lauren


Should I scrub the front steps with brick dust? My pill bottles        rattling
like a zydeco band’s washboard, nightstand drawer                       sliding
open with its own mind. My hauntings manage themselves      by day,
meted out by the pill cutter my doctor suggested instead of       liquor,
a vice injected in my nightmares seemingly on their own,                 black magic
swilling back in a constant communion                                         with graves.
Victory chips can’t dump it down the drain.                                           I am
hanging horseshoes to calm my nerves,                                    my father’s daughter
sleepless nights & all, his big eyes summoned in mine,                 & only
lullabies of want can point me the right direction,                        magic
song that rum handmade from sugarcane                                               could
put to bed. My home remedy cost less than a prescription to             undo
my past, the swallowed girl                                                                                             his
church coaxed into boys’ arms, head bowed under                                              spells
of holy smoke machines & legs quaking & hands raised to heaven.