Can a cure be concocted?
Perhaps a witch’s brew.
Gather for me these: a snip of bonsai
juniper, mother-of-pearl, sand from a white beach, a palm frond, root of
ginger, the petal of a sampaguita flower, and a single strand of black hair.
My disorder is definite and it
runs deep.
Late in the night I am awaked
by feverish dreams. To sleep again, I imagine
mango and coconut and the ocean at all sides.
The island girl, I have come to
understand, has become both my sweetest affliction and my only cure.
—Mitchell Hegman
For Desiree
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