Kevin Trent Boswell

Mama Antoinette squinted hard
Into Camille’s eyes
From behind the counter

“Girl, I told you
“Not to mess ‘round with this.”

“This here… powerful gris gris.”

As she spoke, she pointed at the bag

Her Cajun accent hung lightly
On the incense in the air in the shop

Mama would always flow seamlessly
Between a thick Creole accent, and
A familiar Southern manner of speaking

Camille was sobbing
Into her handkerchief,
Not even aware of how hard
She was clutching the
Small red cloth bag in her hand

Mama stared at the little bottle of oil
Between her fingers and noticed
That the wax seal had been broken on it,
And it was a little bit greasy
On the outside of the bottle,
So it had clearly been opened
And used

For a brief moment, she sounded angry
Before regaining her composure again

“You put a few dabs of this on his
“Personal belongings, like I told you?”

“Ya… yes, Mama… I done what… [Sobs.]
“You said to do.”

“You did say the prayers, didn’t you, girl?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And you done it on Friday morning
“At dawn? Friday, two weeks ago?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You toted this here hand… in your bra,
[She motioned towards the little red bag.]
“And said that prayer every day?”

Her finger tapped impatiently ⠀
Against a folded piece of brown ⠀
Grocery sack paper ⠀
On the counter

Camille broke into spasms of crying and
It was half a minute before she spoke

“Yes, Mama Antoinette.
“And I kept on working
“My nation sack, too,
“Same way as you told me to.”

Mama let her body relax and her
Head tilted up to the ceiling and
She muttered something indiscernible
In Creole

Then, she pried the little red bag
From Camille’s shaking hand, and said

“I will handle gettin’ rid of this.”

She walked over to the ice box,
Lifted the long metal latch and
Opened the door, and placed it inside
She shut the door and walked over
To the little altar that sat on the West wall

She said a prayer, lit a white glass candle,
Took out a small bottle of Florida Water,
Washed her face with it,
Recited another prayer, tossed a pinch of
Herbs and resins into the candle,
Then returned to the counter
And began to wash Camille’s hands
And face with the perfumed water

“What I want to know, girl, is…
“And you better tell me true…
“Is how you done went from
“That blissful state a things,
“Just one week ago…

“To this.”

Upon uttering the word “this,”
She looked revolted and pushed away
The official-looking manila envelope
Stamped EVIDENCE, laying on the counter
In between the two women

Upon pushing it, a police photograph
Slid out, just so it was now halfway
Visible, and Camille clutched her hands
Over her eyes and began hyperventilating

The photo was of a man’s body,
Slumped in front of a rocking chair
On a front porch

A shotgun, partially underneath the body

There was no trace of a head
Anywhere to be seen

Only dried blood
And a little black line
That Mama reckoned was a trail of ants,
Coming and going from the body

So much blood had poured out,
When the body fell from the chair
That the porch (which had
Previously been freshly painted a
Lovely powder blue color)
Appeared almost entirely red,
Although the exact color
Was not apparent, since it was
A black and white photograph

Mama Antoinette briefly placed her hand
On her forehead, slumped over a bit,
Then pulled a cigarette from the drawer
And lit it as she gathered her thoughts

She took a few drags in silence and
Then she said,

“I told you that this was
“A might powerful ‘lection on
“That particular Friday mornin’.
“You remember me sayin’ it to ya.”

Her face went a bit pale and an
Expression of worry found her eyes

“I told you I ain’t done no love workin’
“This strong in ‘least 14, 15 years.”

“And I seent how that boy was with you,
“Just last week.
“Sampson himself couldn’t a
“Wrestled that boy ‘way from you, girl.
“Ain’t nothin’ he wouldn’t done for you.
“Ain’t nothin’ woulda got him to leave…
“Ever. So, I need to understand this.”

She took another long pull on her cigarette
And she straightened herself up and
Leaned in toward Camille,
Her red dress tugging slightly against
The countertop as she inclined forward

Awareness was on Camille’s face
She was awake to the fact that
The moment of truth had arrived,
And she would have to tell what happened

Camille swallowed hard and
Lowered her eyes down towards the
Cash register

It was something to focus on,
Anything that didn’t require her
To look at Mama Antoinette
Or at that awful photo on the counter

Mama flicked ash into the ashtray

“Now, what was the cause of this, girl?
“Tells me plain, now.
“Don’t make me wait for it.
“I need to understand how this happened.”

Camille had a death grip
On the rounded edge of the bar-type
Countertop, her hands clenched, nails
Almost digging into the wood

“We… we had a fight, Mama.
“I was real mad at him, Mama.”

Mama Antoinette looked as if
She was slipping into hypnosis,
Her posture relaxed and her eyes closed

She already understood
What Camille was about to say

“Oh, dear Lord Jesus.
“You went and played ‘round with
“That lovestruck man’s heart, didn’t you?”

She rested the hand with the cigarette
Against the countertop and
Used the thumb of her other hand
To massage her temple

“I didn’t mean for it to happen, Mama.
“I thought he knew I was just angry.
“I thought he was goin’ to sit out
“There on the porch for a while, and
“Then he’d come back inside,
“Apologize, and we’d make up.”

A deathly look washed over
Camille’s face and she swallowed hard
To clear her throat and get the words out
Now, while she still could

“But I told him…
“Because I was real, real, real mad…
“I didn’t wanna never see him no more…
“To leave and never come back.”

Each word that Camille spoke
Became less and less distinct
The sobs of anguish were a little bit more
Successful in strangling her speech
With each successive sentence

“I didn’t know he was wrapped
“That bad ‘round my finger.”

Her eyes darted briefly to the bottle of oil

“But it wasn’t even his fault, Mama.
“I was just bein’ spoilt.⠀
“He didn’t even start the fight.⠀
“I did.”

A profound anger and sadness
Mixed on Mama’s face all at once,
Like a red sea of blood washing over a
Powder blue porch, dripping on the grass

“The last thing I heard him say was…
“He couldn’t live without me.”

Camille collapsed onto the floor
In hysterical crying

Mama walked around from
Behind the counter

She turned the sign on the door over
To say “CLOSED,” and she locked the door

And went and sat beside the girl,
Clutching her in her arms
As she wailed
And sobbed

Outside,
Camille’s brother sat in his truck
Staring blankly at the steering wheel
As he waited to take her to their
Mother’s house to spend the night,
Since her own home was now
Cordoned off by police tape

Children rode by on bikes,
Unaware of anything except
Lightning bugs in the twilight,
Since the sun had just fallen
Underneath the horizon

And the crickets and the cicadas
Ruled the humid summer air

And everything,
As far as the eye could see,
Was growing dark

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©2026 Kevin Trent Boswell