Gingerbread House Lit Mag

After Paracelsus

For my birthday my sister gave me a bottle
of lotion that somehow smells like the memory

of Noxzema, the transmutations of adolescence,
astringent and powerful baptisms of splashing water.

I think of the cunning men and women,
healers, barber-surgeons, midwives on stools.

Wonder at their strange prognostications
and diagnoses. They know glass birds fly

from keyholes. I apply the lotion as they might have
a snakestone or bezoar to a wound made by serrated wings

or teeth. The way they brought forth silver and rose petals.
A jug of mercury, the salve for what must be cauterized by stars. 

Ray Ball

Ray Ball grew up in a house full of snakes. She is a history professor, a Best of the Net and Pushcart-nominated poet, and an editor at Alaska Women Speak. Her chapbook Tithe of Salt came out with Louisiana Literature Press in the spring of 2019, and she has recent publications in Human/Kind Journal, Rivet, and SWWIM Every Day. You can find her in the classroom, in the archives, or on Twitter @ProfessorBall. 

Artwork: Laura Makabresku

This entry was published on November 30, 2019 at 12:06 am and is filed under 39 (November 2019), Poetry. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.
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