I was once as many of us are lovesick,
and I didn't know what was going on.
So I consulted this woman in South Phila --
I was younger.
I know better now, right?
I consulted this woman in South Philadelphia,
who was supposed to know a lot about these kinds of things.
And this is a poem about this consolation--
this consultation.
[LAUGHTER]
And you get-- and you'll hear her voice in it now and again.
And the title of the poem is "Malocchio" which means,
evil eye.
And I grew up in a culture which believed--
believes in these powers.
"Malocchio."
"Snake bit where there are no snakes.
Under a dark cloud in her kitchen,
I explained my problem that space assumed weird shapes.
What kind of shapes?
Funnels, cyclonic egg beaters, opening out of me like a bell
whose music I'm forced to be.
My blood spins, too.
It's awful.
And I feel weaker by the day.
Very complicated.
The old lady's toaster gleamed.
On its surface mused her fridge, stove, and some colored vials.
I explained, I couldn't sleep, had cold sweats,
felt confused by things like that toaster.
She cocked her head at me and tapping the corner
of her eye, lanced, she said,
the evil pouch someone's look had sewn into my brain.
"You'll be OK now".
Oh, malarial rose scented love, sparrow wings and thorns,
spiky dewdrops, fur.
Nipples, juice, breath, pulse.
It didn't work.
I still want back the hand and voice that bit me."