Mojo Wagon  

The little boy who lives next door makes them in old jars his mother saves for him. Baby food for Better Teeth mojo, olive for Eyeball mojo, spaghetti sauce and pickle jars for Downtown mojo. Mayonnaise, applesauce, capers, cocktail and tartar sauce, horseradish, these are less popular brands of mojo so what goes inside decides it. One time, a spice jar, it was bay leaves, he had to ask me what they were before he decided oh yes, Summer Vacation mojo. The cheapest come in empty match boxes, the most expensive was an old band-aid tin (Invincible mojo) and next a Vaseline jar (No More Baby mojo). He gives directions out loud only, but he swears he is a great writer even in cursive. He keeps his money in a turtle shell he stopped up with canning wax and hangs it round his neck. He always has a wagonload—always different. No one else talks to him that I can tell, but someone buys them. He rattles his shell until the bills muffle the coins. Every day I stop him and ask him what he’s got. I trade him. When a garden snake leaves her skin in my backyard I ask for the Money Tree mojo in return. A Mexican bee dies in my driveway—a Lookin’ Good Glass. 10 vulture feathers my cat got off the bird as he ate a flattened squirrel—Night-vision Pills. I have a shelf filled by the little witch doctor next door and I haven’t bought anything—only adopted his habit of seeing shapes in loose stones—a favorable connection between pennies and hair growth, an opportunity in the bleached skull of a previously mentioned flattened squirrel.

Meghan Brinson hails from Charleston, SC. She holds an MFA from Arizona State University, where she served as poetry editor for Hayden's Ferry Review. She has poems appearing in Puerto del Sol, Gulf Coast, The Greensboro Review, Makeout Creek, and Pebble Lake Review.

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