Potions

 

Potions

 

Dear…I am Filipina,

there must be potions.

Yesterday, you tease her,

saying you are like witch

chiefly thinking of those

three you never met,

delighting in equivocation

and I’ll get you yet,

Penelope Pitstop.

No Hooded Claw, for sure,

more Sylvester Sneekly,

pretending to meekly

accept potions for warts,

apple acid on feet,

lotion for elbows

rubbed raw from rested chins,

in what passes for thinking.

Medicines for depression,

that which lessen

gnawing fear, panic, dread,

a drug for a weary head

that built the toppled towers.

Crème with power

to soothe rashed up lips,

potent lavender to slip

onto coarse throat and ease,

and something blue

for the weekend, please.

All this after half an hour

screaming, making hot motion

at her cool iPhone,

because a naughty sister

left an octogenarian mother alone,

threatened to scoop her

from home. Even at 53

that one seeks work in Davo City,

something to bespell,

putting potions there as well.

Yesterday, you heckle her with:

you’re like my mother

she shrugs back,

grins and gives

good you have mother like me:

in truth she’s so unlike

and so far,

we’d cross seven seas.

In potions she conjures

all the pushing oceans -

we float in her dreams

and my visions

of all drowned lovers.