[To preserve the fear, we boil]
To preserve the fear, we boil
a mason jar in oil, tamp down the lid, offer
this dirge to the graveyard, color our bodies
with bark dust, become woodpile titans.
Our cellar is a shed full of witches. You won’t
go down the steps without me so I confront
the door, hack at the hinges with the wrong
side of engineer’s red hammer. It swings off easily,
throws splinters down on the earthwork. There are many
urns down here, many chipped ceramic offerings,
a jug brimmed with congealed animal fat, a pot that once
frothed over. You tell me not to wander off, find a space
for our new addition, a place to condition its contents
until fermentation is complete. I put the jar on a rickety
shelf, hold my hands nearby for a moment to await
catastrophe. As I move back toward the stairs, the
animal fat jug burps & bleeds. I can see our future
in the thick pools forming around my feet, can read it
just like a dimestore dreadful.
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