The same old voodoo Judy Garland
The voodoo woman dreams of trees
that are painted white, and Judy Garland
is dead in the hotel room, yet belting
a song in the back of your spine
when it curves like the corner of a room
when he grabs her in deep jest -

like he always did,
and the same voodoo
burns from the tip of a red
candle, she did (she tells
Artemis, confidentially) always
fear the flame of her own
contamination,

though the days grow longer in a
shorter thought pattern of her memories
of him, and the voodoo woman
builds her bracken dolls from twigs
and straw, from birds' nests and moss,

she pins a piece of paper with his name on
it to the chest – lights a match,

the voodoo woman pelts her disclaimer
while somewhere in the other room Judy Garland
still lives

the doll burns,
she will haunt herself into
forgetfulness

she will not speak of him again,
or so, the flames would exaggerate her to believe.