by: Amanda Holstien
in Marfa, TX

“The Mandrakes Give off a Fragrance”

For Leah to give away
a night with Jacob;

The mandrakes give off a fragrance
to produce hallucinations,
hallelujah,
a secret, poetic elixir,
which is why they call it occult.
How the Song of Solomon is
an alchemical text,
the plants and perfumes
speaking their language
to activate with lemon and verbena.
One time I drank this
substance
to forfeit the mind
and induce seduction,
for it is no longer I who live,
but Christ who dwells in me.

An inhibition thrown to the east,
such is the bitter taste of mandrake
with all its rumors to protect thee
or to call upon one’s lover
to induce a heeded call.
Almost pink, this poisonous potion
alluring me to stay in my seat
to forsake any thought
other than thee
spoken freely
with your warming charms,
warning me of this tea break
in the afternoon
with mandrake.

I finally heard the birds chirping,
begging or singing God’s, God, God,
a voracious understanding in the spring,
for why does the tree appear to be breathing?
Perhaps I’ll light a candle to
remember thee.

My will-intention
understanding of how things
ought to be
to compare and despair
or walk forward to the south,
to the stars.

Once-rooted, the dog’s whistle
pulled me out and there
I went with a black-and-white scoundrel.
But truthfully, let’s be secret friends, for even Leah
with her sacrificial nature
eventually did give birth again,
and I bore witness
that the rain falls and is contained
in the west.
For what is death
but a passageway leading
me back to where we began,
and from ‘we’ I shall become.
To carry and bring good fortune
however one might describe such a thing,
carving candles or wrapping me in a cloth
to get whatever it is you desire.

Who knows why it is that we do such things
or how witches make ointments to fly
or why a fly seated yonder is begging me to pull him a card.

To tell a fortune for a fortuitous companion
contemplating if I drugged him asleep
to get my way with a willing participant.
If only he knew how I got my way.
Incantations and determination,
a few secret ingredients like billowing smoke,
accidental or on purpose
inducing visions, for how else
does creation begin
but with exertion and impulse?
Sent forward abd carried westward,
for to live is to die;
we already know,
sweet babies.

Sorting through ashes
a thorn in my side,
sweet roses,
spikenard and saffron
intentional creation
regardless of the powers that be
or for to not be
an alternate frequency
of acceptance of things exactly
as they are, at least for a moment,
and suddenly it’s gone,
the wondering.

Feeding spirits
in time,
temporal prison,
linearity singing its song,
and I am a vessel
for mandrake to speak foward
as thus,
a lingering novel
with drama and all of its charms:
One time the Queen of England
seduced a man from a different race.
I know, for I keep the record rooted,
and I swear she did it
more than once.
She had her servant pull me bare-handed, and I gave out a scream.
Then they were cursed and didn’t even know, poor materialists
but such was their birth.

Yet I continued being known
by the writings of Paracelsus
and illiterate farmers
seeking hard-ons.

You’d almost think I’ve been around forever -
How could anyone know love apart from me?
Yet here I am, part-and-parcel, telling these women
to take off their tops, shake their hips and grow out their hair.

Life’s really not boring
if you’re okay with twiddling thumbs
between making love.