I believe in altar.

I believe in wormwood,
dried root,
my brother’s ashes
in a silver heart,
a ceramic urn,
a chant, a poem.
datura when the time
is right.

sometimes I do ceremony,
sometimes I just let things pass.
we do that for others:
carry our grief quietly,
we bury things deep
within ourselves.
but sometimes in a fit,
I spill over:
tell you everything.
you said
I like to swim
so I am braised with razors,
become a carnation lake
at your feet and
 you said rain,
I like gardens.
so I condensed and
waited to show off my new arms
lined in blue alyssum.
my cycle: I always meet them in
winter where my only
light is moon.
my flowers blossom
under the chilled night:
drip a dark nectar and
I am thirsty and
you already know,
I believe in

I believe in overflowing
chalice.  you believe in holding
space for growl,
holding me with
you watch me lay the
dill in bowl, line the bed
with tourmaline.
run the bath with
chamomile and yarrow.
 I am full of tincture now.
I can move like a jaguar:
slow and black and
I am hard to see that way.
you said
 I am game.

you’ve been watching
jaguars move,
you’ve been memorizing motion,
you said
I’ll be around
and I drape myself in constellation
so you can better see me,
storm so you can better feel
me and I traipse across the forest
floor waiting to be found.    
my tonsils growing
my rib cage growing legs,
my bottom becoming fat
with thread and
I know what you like
and I know that
you are game.

you are writhing
game in tiny, tiny
snowflake threads
hung far above the
I said let’s switch places
and I know that you
are game.
I become the woods
encircling your howl and
you become the kicking,
screaming, young and
drowned dripping
down my altar.

“datura moon”


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