rituals
he thinks that if he paints a circle of honey ties bags of grain around his neck sheaths his
cock in coca leaves that you will emerge dripping mucosa as if born from his will. your
resolve in this power playground is a gold ball he holds & taunts you with. you are
what is wet & drinkable something to turn around & be considered on the tongue. his
instrument is barbarian because he is taught to wield it as you would a machete on
sugarcane. the body mortar(ed) & pestle(‘d) spread between a roll of obligation.
●
you are his delicate tough seed collector for beads of progeny caviar. pound for pound
shaved to the stump & collected in his hands salted & left to cure. you will call him the
myth of lightning striking in the same place twice a bruise above your left breast…
the drunkenness of new night new pleasure.
●
he handles you the way your grandfather handled all the women in his life the
women crusted in his eyelids after good sleep the women swept away like dust with
pointer broom the women praying for him at the foot of his bed the women casting
hexes on each other for his attention a ghosting devotion.
●
they say [his mother, mostly] that he wouldn’t squeeze a live ant between his thumb &
forefinger that he is to be trusted with all small things performing grand gestures & yet
here you are moating rivers around you in bed nesting the tangled wildflower
caught in your throat.