Sunday, August 8, 2021

Sacrament and Sacrifice

Remember the land in Berkley and how proud Dad was? Prodigal-like I come back to the Country of Turtles and beg its Queen for forgiveness. Are you gone then? Some planes do not reach their destination, some maps can only say "hic sunt dracones." Be the banks of the river I am so late in life becoming. It is possible - technically - that I have a child in Ireland. Quietly making peace with the Latin root from which sacred, sacrament and sacrifice all derive. Leave the lights off, tell me you love me, make it last. Oh these headaches that don't respond to aspirin, hydration, darkness, et cetera. Faces floating in darkness before sleeping, not ghosts so much as an audience, one that is neither willing nor unwilling to watch the performance, my last. It's projection all the way down and silhouettes all the way out. Are we okay with what we became? You'll have to figure out the next steps yourself my love, maybe all the way to the end. I never was very good at singing harmony and my throat, I left it on the altar they say She sometimes visits.

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