blood

first, there is the blood of the chicken—
then the effigy doll, blindfolded with hands tied behind its back—
attempts at wordly accretions to follow, but it doesn’t look right,
this is worse,
every trip a strand of its own
producing its own unique hole—
an interstice in her soul—
& a burr in my sole

it’s the journey
not the destination
(says she)

so i write about this rite
right?
this ritual—
how ten minutes elapse
so quickly—

look here:
it’s already mid-may 2024!

blood of the chicken
elapses too soon

What I’m Reading:

How hard it was to fit the last crayon into the bulging box; like the last person who pushes onto the elevator and is resented by the insiders.

— Pat Wilson / “A Spring Morning”