Hoodoo

They dangle from branches like whispering guardians,  

tiny glass bottles with throats open to the sky,  

catching the breath of wandering spirits,  

sifting curses from the air like pollen.  

Each one a sentinel glinting in sunlight,  

its belly pregnant with slow-moving intentions—  

malice trapped mid-flight,  

unable to dissolve into shadow again.  

My grandmother’s hands knew this prayer,  

stringing bottles while humming hymns,  

her voice a quiet defiance  

against what she could not name aloud.  

Even now, when I pass under oaks,  

I see them trembling in the breeze,  

like small, translucent lungs,  

exhaling something dark and unseen.  

And for a moment, I feel safe.  

Not invincible, but protected enough—  

as if the earth remembers us  

and wants us to keep standing.