the second one I called
was Hecate.

I am on the floor
in the stained glass room
with the brown carpet
and the yellow walls
and the paper flowers:
bright orange, white, red,
dusty and a sprinkle of
musk from the places
I shoved them and my
dripping skin;
eighty eight degree body flailing
impetuously to flatten them.

I am flipping over index cards.
the coral & lime sheet is lined
with shells–some broken–
and rocks, pieces of concrete I
remember picking up in Maryland
when I saw the perfect house.
a ceramic lemon bowl is full
of dirt from the catacombs,
a burned scripture,
red jasper.
my fingers digging
at the bottom,
tips filthy and
jagged.

today we are reading up until
we are forced to stop:
is not easily angered
which means I have gotten
past does not envy
but I have not gotten past temper,
or
I am indeed a wrathful cunt
so the second one I called
was Hecate:
have purpose,
some patent resolve.

and I always pause to look
in the mirror,
not unsure
just a tremor. old reflex
to watch my eyes change.
part my hair and look past something;
my facile understanding
of all of this and
my soft, dolorous step.

we break men.

crushing debris
between my fingers
into a nanoscopic form on my floor
to be carried on my soles
with each soft, dolorous step.

we break men.

“the incantations”