You wonder what’s become of me,
why I don’t answer my phone, assume
I’ve turned silent and secretive.
This long hiatus in quarantine
has demonstrated my facility
with wizardry without idolatry.
Don’t call it hocus-pocus, nonsense,
or voodoo bullshit. This isn’t bumbling
astrology or Ouija boards. I honor
intuitions, inner warnings that rise
in dreams or wake me with flashes
of insight into what is near—deer
drinking at the pond, an owl before
I hear them hooting in the woods.
In grocery stores, I still wear a mask
and sun visor. Obscured beneath
my baggy clothing, I observe
your aura, hear your noisy mental
chatter. The crystals hanging
in my windows are more than mere
decoration. They invite jinns
and genies who obey my whims.
I’m never alone. Surrounded by
oaks and beeches, this earth is alive
with invertebrates and fungi within
my cone of power. When I sit quietly
and still my thoughts, I can see
the future. Revenants speak.
When I hold up my palms to face
the sun, they bloom yellow roses.
Joan Mazza worked as a microbiologist and psychotherapist, and taught workshops on dreams and nightmares. She is the author of six self-help psychology books, including *Dreaming Your Real Self* (Penguin/Putnam). Her poetry has appeared in *Crab Orchard Review, Prairie Schooner, Slant, Poet Lore,* and *The Nation.* She lives in rural central Virginia and writes every day.