Cartography
The thin candle in the mortuary bends & pants. We place
our burden beside ourselves, stretch out on the tables
full of vinegar & needles. You pretend
to lance your eye. I pretend to retch. Neither one
of us is truly pretending. I open our sack, take out
the oil & the bread, tough as yesterday. You make
a pile of the shaved root, red & glistening. One of us
should be chanting, but we’re not much for song so we gather
the flame in our hands, blow on each other to make it grow.
We douse the pile in oil, watch it flare, spread the ashes on bread
with your father’s pocket knife. You hand me both halves. I choke
them down, see shapes move on the wall. The candle’s flame burns green
& gold. You touch my shoulder. Be careful. I smile, my mouth foams with grit.
Parts of me are forgotten now. Parts of the walls are opening up.
I tell you I won’t get lost. I tell myself I know my way back.
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