My Friend the Witchdoctor

in the time of archeology
these cave painting sorcerers
thick paper wraps my ceremony
tongue crosses doorjambs for
old gender politics
stemming the flood once
more the brink of morning
a coin left in the pie
for anything new to be placed here
out of the goon’s fire
a ram, a girl, a snake
a line of ten men
march to sounds of women
ululate in wonderful return