The Dumaine street entrance was for tourist,
bloated on chicory coffee and beignets,
or sloshing hurricanes and searching for AC;
neon signs and the kitschy tools of the trade,
a charm to cajole a lover, belt of chicken’s feet —
all with an inflated sticker for unbelieving customers.
Locals knew to use the back entrance,
where they came to see Sister Confidential.
She performed the rituals just as they asked,
the ancient ones most had forgotten and
few were brave enough to experience.
Through the blur of senses and incense fog she
created visions of destiny and ransacked
the memories of ghost and ancestors.
Passers by could hear the muffled weeping
of the interview aftermath and watch the
unsteady exit of creole faithful —
they would pause for a minute, consider,
then move on with a nervous laugh.
Written for the Sunday Whirl wordle.