THE GRIS-GRIS MAN
Grandpa Rodrigue said he was a coonass,
but really he was a shaman, stirring
the great boiling pot, chanting songs
from the fais do-do,1 sung
to enhance a roux or a brew,
mudbugs transformed into meals.
He taught me luck lived
in the rabbit’s hind foots, as his hands
slung entrails into the sink.
He coaxed green things from
swamp-starved soils, so backyard
gardens could flourish in his footsteps.
He could charm fish out of water,
snatch hatchlings from she-gators
unscathed. He skinned
even the dreaded Rougarou.2
Rainbow birds too, he enchanted,
not for eating but for illegal trade
over Southern states’ lines.
When have Cajuns obeyed
any law but their own?
Yes, it was magic dwelling in him
when he rubbed his hands together,
reciting the ritual gris-gris merde sha,3
medicine he sang over bumps and bruises
to cure a boude,4 bobo, or a babine.5
He watched as I wiped away my tears,
never knowing his healing
incantation was cat shit.
1A fais do-do is a Cajun dance party, hosted at night while children were asleep.
2The Rougarou is a mythical wolf man creature that prowls the swamp and snatches up disobedient children.
3Gris-gris is magic, and merde sha is shit of the cat.
4A boude is a pout.
5A babine is the gesture made when a child sticks out her bottom lip in discontent.