The Dousing Stick of Lily Dale, Western New York

© By Boinkaz

I climb the wisteria of Rte. 5
peer through a trellis of grass
at a brief platter of lake.
It’s offered up with the
indulgence of morning light,
tantalizing & slightly angled towards me
and briefly withdrawn
behind slats of pastel houses and road side stands.

I’m planning to get juiced on a vineyard tour
but an infection of creation burns at my brow.
An assembly of spiritualists
hoard the sun in their cottages
on the Upper Cassadaga lake
in a place called Lily Dale.

I’ve come to find them in their orderly covens,
their cottages and lawns
smoking back to Heaven
the lava of the night time dew.

For those who turn cards for unusual growths.
For those who fashion outcomes for children whose
charm & pocket money has gone to drugs.
For those who turn checkered polyester faces
wintered into hard lakeside pebbles
back into an acceptable consistency of leather.

I’ve come for the laying on of hands
I’ve come to see Rose
with her smear of dark eyes.

She tells me the bracelets of skin
at my wrists
ensure I will see 80.
She lays palms on my temples
as if she is going to crush me at the scalpline.
She pulls my head to her chest and lifts
my skull to decompress my neck.

She looks to petals of paint
growing from the ceiling
a sound comes from within her
and a vibration of magnetic cars
shuddering in me and rustling the
paint like a wind.

Later she leans me back on a divan
with one palm on my forehead
and the other on the small of my back.
She coaxes my water of energy to a restful tide.

I drift and she awls out the copper of me
with sonorific
ribbed stories of kirlian photography.

Of how she can feel the warmth of an old soul in me.
Of how grey fists at the Chautauqua Institute hammer with dsapproval at Rose and her kind.
Of how I am a natural grumbler for I was born when the Moon was trapped in the Seventh House.
Of how she thinks I’m psychic and I must have the healing hands.

Rose unclasps the latch of her voice
rolls as she walked on a bad hip,
and leaves me to doze.

Through the window she genuflects a tin sprinkler over her flowerbed.
It’s her dousing stick, from which the water flows backwards,
coaxing from the polticed death of soil
a perfume of existence,
color, odor,
a swaying movement
from the ground.

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