Gris-Gris

Mama Cole tell me that to shake the old man’s curse I need some bleeding done, and not no chicken neither.

Mama Cole say a living breather, with skin and a face.

I know she mean two-foot, but four will have to do. I am no murderer, me.

Just a man who want to shake a ghost.

Use something of his own, Mama Cole say, so I take his cold razor from the high shelf, strop it on the belt he beat us with.

I lead that little billy to the Saint Roch tombstone, look away when I cut.

 

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