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The Medicine Bag 

March the centuries on, 
the talisman wraps and 
clings to the collar bone. 

The medicine bag cups holy 
bones that speak of the 
future, flint and stone to
 make magic fire 

strong medicine in the 
feather of the eagle
a tooth of the wolf when the 
spirit guide is he,
 
Should the moon's cycle be
the guide. an agate stone. 

Antler bone, its spirit 
sacrificed, meat and juices 
hiss into the fire on a wintry 
night. 

Amulets forever worn „round 
the neck touched by hands 
to reassure. 

Fear, pain and loss subside. 
Joy celebrated stroked in 
thanksgiving, always there, 
a comfort. 

To lose it was to lose one.s 
self. 
 
The medicine bag still adorns 
the educated, the modern, 
the agnostic. 

Turquoise of a native people
rosary beads for a strict and 
vengeful God
a locket filled with a 
beloved.s hair 

hippy beads from the time of 
peace signs and Haight-Ashbury 

a gold chain dangling stones 
ripped from the earth 

David.s star shining over
centuries of darkness.
 
The shark.s tooth from the icy, 
indifferent depths 

silver charms jingle and talk of 
life.s landmarks 

the gold cross celebrating a 
vicious torture 

worry beads from a 
mysterious and dark cult 

a modest grain of sand 
coated with oyster spit 

the ashes of one that ca'.t 
be let go, lest it diminish the 
life that remains. 

Medicine bags…all. 

Trisha Sugarek from
Butterflies and Bullets

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