Pink Salt
my mother bestowed her knowledge.
Evil manifests in little curses,
many unnoticed but all substantial.
So she sprinkled salt from the Himalayas
in the corners of rooms in Lawrenceville,
along the prickly bits of carpet by the doorframe,
gently on top of dust on the windowsill.
Sometimes the salt got stuck between my toes
or left phantom indents on my still-soft heels,
but the beach she grew up on
is a flight too-long-to-sleep-through away,
So I didn't mind her attempt to replicate
the feeling of pink sand beneath her feet
A mighty barricade and a momento from home.
She also liked to combat ungodly spell casters
by burning incense from the gas station.
Evil spirits are not keen on the fragrances
of "Indian Rose" or "Black Woman."
On special days she would pick up a scratcher or two
and ask me to pray in Jesus' holy name
before taking my lucky penny to them.
I did, but we were never concerned about defeat.
It felt true that we could not predict God's plan.
Even when I prayed she would win big,
secretly, I hoped that we would lose,
so we could keep playing
only on special days.