She leaned in and whispered it to me,

 

It came from Nigeria, or Togo maybe,

Knowledge of how to do it,

Brought over with slavery,

A sort of voodoo, with some Taino mixed in.

They have this ceremony,

And they can actually fly.
 

She leaned back, nodding, studying me,

Seeing if I believed it,

But I was already far away.

 

In a hazy green valley,

Holding hands in a circle with dark men,

A taste of alkaline,

The smell of woodsmoke and horses,

The sound of words turning into a hum,

My brain like a singing bowl,

And my feet lifting off the ground…

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