You finger the talisman
on the bronze chain, the eye
that sees into places
you cannot. Each dawn
you observe the ritual, say
the words, caress it with oil,
tar, the pharynxes of whelks.
What the shaman never told you
was that this spell was never
meant to shield you, nor make
you invisible. It was designed
to attract those who would
wrap their arms around you
with equal parts lust and protection,
those who look beyond your sleek
beauty. Within the black thoroughbred
is a foal who quivers around
a broken leg. It will only take
love and patience to heal.

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