Folk Medicine Maybe there’s a backyard cure, or so you say while I cry over a shoebox full of orange bottles Saturday night. Next morning, the kitchen table is forest floor: jimson weed and black morels, berry caviar, and you’re frying bluegill in bacon grease. If you really want something to happen, Grandma used to say, write it on birch bark with ash from the fire, put it in your underwear drawer, and forget about it. I think it’s too late. I think I don’t believe in north-woods witchcraft. You brew shaman tea I can’t turn down, we pack our cheeks with smoked venison like tobacco, and wait for the healing to start. Bailey Spencer
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