Gypsy Hips

You do the voodoo that you do:
Shake snakes at me, take stakes and wave them bravely,
dance half in a trance
as if your body (not your mind) was free.
The smell of incense is a bit too intense,
open a window, let it out.
You're obvious right now.

Lying together on the grass making photographs,
half baking laughs,
drinking half 'n half from a hot coffee bath
Cut and dry
after the asthma attack.

Your boyfriend's a charmer, too,
he told me, "I don't want to harm her,
but it's the least that I could do."
I have to believe him,
we've been best friends since grade school,
since back when smoking cigarettes was cool,
since before he fell for a pretty fool.

You roll die real nice, chant scant incantations
for cages of white mice, feed them herbs and spice
mixed in with brown and light rice.
You curl up with a horoscope, hoping no Capricorns elope
with Sagitarius today while the pitch of your slope gets higher.

You don't mourn the dead, you say,
"We're born to get older,"
but you really don't mind when I cry on your shoulder.
Gypsy Hips, you've made my world seem less cold,
and so I move you into a less judgmental folder:
Friend.

July 22