This Is Not a Sonnet for Your Silence

Force a flower from a branch like a dead god come
back. The king is about to announce there are no
cracks. But a hundred bucks says that thirst-trap
snapping Jolene will one hundo percent be long gone,
asap. To prevent dreams of the dead, touch the forehead
of the corpse laid out in the living room. Carry a pitcher
of water through a doorway, explain to me what a ritual
is. I’m aware of the body and its dangers, I keep a crock
of gallows cream by the side of the bed. My eyes glow
in the dark like a glistening blister. Careful! Their glister
could be catching, but you never could hold
their liquor.
The storehouse is stocked. The tower calls out
to the hawk— I’m here, I’m here!



Image: There Was Perhaps a First Vision Attempted by the Flower (1883) by Odilon Redon, via Rawpixel.