My gypsy and I, we gaze through wary lashes, I can see her in the mirror, and can we talk? she asks. She is beautiful and dark, powerful and irresistible, I am under her spell, can barely breathe. She, the source of all that is restless and warrioress and knowing, I think she curses me? But she speaks with the voice of God: I am your life, she says, all gentle and firm. Your fire. Your healing river. She is in my bones. She grips me; I cannot move without her, and maybe, because of her, I’m still alive? Yes, she whispers, and it is her that rises deep, planted in the so(uls) of my feet and bursting into sunlight.