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Incense settled in the air,
masking the taste of bile
rising to the back of my throat.
Downstairs, in the bookstore,
chattering sounds, muffled—
New-Age sorts milling about in search
of answers to Age-Old questions.
She sat across from me, eyes closed.
clutching a pillar of clear crystal,
sandaled feet obscured by folds
of a voluminous purple skirt.
I folded sweaty palms together,
clenched my jaw and waited for her guides
to tell her what they wanted her to know,
fought the urge to bolt down stairs
into the frost-laced autumn morn.
Warning words from long ago:
Père l‘Aumonier, a gaunt aesthete
cautioning in a whisper:
“Mefiez-vous de la magie noire,
meme de la magie blanche.”
A shadow poured across the loft.
At last her eyes flew open.
and she placed a globe of amethyst
upon the edge of the weathered
wooden table that marked a boundary
between her world and mine.
“This is you,” she said, pointing
to the lilac orb, “and this is who
you can become,” she said, point to another stone,
a glowing golden citrine on the far side of the table.
And then she took the heavy chunk of quartz,
warm now, no doubt, from the cradle
of her palm, and lay it down between the others.
“And this is all that holds you back.”
She pointed to the crystal, and named it.
Named it then the very same name
that I have chosen for this poem.
Linked to dVerse Meeting the Bar, which I had the privilege of hosting. I hope you will stop by, join in. Bring a poem, have a drink and enjoy the work of your fellow poets.
Note: the French translates: the (priest) chaplain said: Beware of black magic, even white magic.