honeydunce

The snakes will have to be torched. Scales, venom and all. There will be no donating the fangs to science. We will not
wear them round our necks like drilled victories. We will cover our mouths with the necks of our shirts when the
smoke rises. Try to breathe a little less.

“Come home, to end and start.” Year of the flame. Year of the little bruised blue being born and growing–growing
feet a back and wings, growing cracking nerve ends that outstretch to none. A burial would not be enough. The dirt
can’t cover it–the dirt is an ingredient; there isn’t time to sift. Arms stand in a doorway carrying a knot of things to
the throat, skin against the shade of bent letters and brief triggers. What does gone mean? A wind you thought
about, shattered through with walking. There’s a time to be ready.

What is late if just right? Another year won’t come without the parting. No rotting net promising to catch, no womb to woo
you back. I’ll burn the snakes, the roots, the tubers, my fingerprinted backspaces. I’ll burn the stacks and box fillers,
the rusted boats filled with paper. The clicks, the twigs–the twine that binds them. Spit dries. Burn it all.