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She is the doctor of the night Fragile scullion in the daylight Do not be fooled so easily She is a Black Obeah Lady Heard they used rice to prevent her plans When she threatened to suck blood from a baby’s hand The sound of her talking drums, heard miles away That ritual rhythm played every day, serenading her praises To Gods unknown to a common man Spells cast as she dances in white and moves her hands Neighbours talk over fences, squinting just to catch a view Of the dirty works within her home, they are asking who Whose time has come to die? Why? Maybe it is you Worried faces, afraid of what is to come Black Obeah lady’s spirits will make them run Her pot is on fire, the scent of herbs f

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© 2020 by Yolanda T. Marshall

Toronto, Canada