KEIRA LYNN DODD

My Profession

 

Surrounded by eyes,

some staring, others drifting,

I attend to the day’s work:

 

I bob about on waves of words

that flow in and out of my mind.

I am covered in a soft, white dust.

The magic is palpable.

Brains fizz and pop,

an electricity that circulates wildly,

spreading from person to person,

and I am the center.

 

Eyes that drifted now flash fire.

Hands dart up in volcanic bursts

or else rise slowly, like green buds

opening to the sun.

 

When you pass by my door,

You feel the frenzy and stop

To peek in—you see a mad woman

leaping about, speaking in tongues.

Symbols line the darkness behind her,

and the tribe of novice priests and priestesses

mimic her movements.  They dance

her dance of power, casting a spell

on you, the observer.  The words are webs.

I know I’ve caught you

when you come in to sit down

and join the sacred circle.

 

Before long you are speaking our language—

a language beyond words— of sound,

of symbol, living and breathing

somewhere deep inside, or perhaps

up and outside, above us all.