BY RAYMOND LUCZAK
I was born with frankincense in my hands.
The aroma never left me no matter the task.
Its porous smell became my perfume.
I fell into dreams filled with dense woods
where mushrooms and flowers of the strangest
colors bloomed. It was there I learned my trade,
the language of potions and spells, from the first
wisewoman long dead but very much alive
in the cemetery of my dreams. She had collected,
studied, and learned. Through her I awakened
with knowledge: breasts, heavy yet buoyant,
and my golden red hair flowing down
past my shoulders and between my thighs.
Men always stopped when I bent down
to examine a new plant; I relied on my dictionary
of dreams to confirm its viability. I had no interest
in their bulges that seemed to pierce bluntly.
I didn’t need them at all. My hands were always
laden with frankincense, myrrh, and yarrow.
I sprinkled, fanning them over the sweet soil
between my thighs, until a dark-haired woman flowered
up in many colors and kissed me on the lips. There
I came, and came, and came
in the sweetest of magick.