Shaman Smoke

Entered into "The darkness" contest.

Like a marsh around a drowning infant,
darkness covers the land. The natives
breathe smoke in their small huts,
the shaman drawing shapes in the dusty
air with a gnarled root. Many herbs
burn in the small enclosure, naked men
chanting to the spirits for protection;
only the curved lines of red and blue
paint from mud and crushed fruit
clad their earth-toned skin.

A curl of dust from the hissing fire
signifies an anaconda, the unleggèd
beast of the dead, fangs dripping
the ash of its victims. Outside,
a distant moan is heard and they quiet,
except for the shaman, caked in cracking
mud and crowned with a dead-leaf head-
dress, humming. An hour and they hear
their shuffling like a jaguar through
the thick blades of jungle grass.

The youngest wants to run, eyes darting
back and forth in a furor of fear.
They know they would catch him, like
the giant cat on an unsuspecting sloth.
Outside the doorway, a body slides slowly
past; nothing but bones and rotting bits
of flesh cling to its remains, its burial
clothing tattered and worn. With eyes
closed, they only listen: the earthy groans
of their cursèd ancestry. An hour later

it is silent again, except for the shaman,
still humming through his strange stupor;
the snake soon slithers into the glowing
pit. Sunny again, they pace to the river
and wash off their mud-and-fruit sigils.

Reviews

[Kena Dawn Augustine]

Very descritpive, adn a rather serious and heavy read about death. Nice job.

[Valorie J. Shearer]

Wow, I can see why you have been published. I enjoyed this very much! Take care~~~