You're holding a spellbook.
A backwoods grimoire.
A gospel of the unburied.
Not everything you survived needed healing.
Some of it needed
naming
.
burying right
This is not where you find closure.
This is where you leave the lie behind.
Where your ache gets a name,
your rage gets a ritual,
and your silence finally gets seen.
These aren't stories.
They're
offerings
To the moan they called mercy.
To the ghosts you buried without blessing.
To the habits that wore your face.
To the goodbye you never gave.
Let the Dirt Have It
sits alongside works like
Hoodoo Herb and Root Magic
,
Old Style Conjure
, and
Working Conjure
- but it doesn't teach spells.
It
is
one.
A ritual for grief, a reckoning for shame, a laying-down place for the things you've carried too long.
Inside, you'll find incantations, ancestral witness, and pages built like altars.
This isn't healing lit.
It's
truth-tending
If something rises while you're reading -
don't run.
Let it rise.
Let it speak.
The dirt knows what it's doing.
For readers of
Black Girl, Call Home
Hoodoo for Beginners
Salt Eaters
who crave raw, poetic reckoning -
is a ritual in book form. This is for the ones who carry things no one ever named.