folk magic

from vinegar blooms an eye
 
it blinks at the heretic feeding
the ghost of my potential an impression
of women who weave crosses from palms
while watching the fishermen cast their nets

near sleep i taste artichoke and brine
my elders remind me in murmur
how to flay a carcass
i cure its skin with salt and alum

for the ancestral oven
i prepare the rabbit

while the others feast
i burn my tongue on coals
don’t even yearn for an invention
like the internet or refrigeration
when the trials come
i pretend i have choice:

abdicator daughter first

of the next before daughters

posing as the pietá in reverse

my unworthiness in ascent

the screech of my undaughtering

i retire to the bog
dig a pit beside a well
relinquish your medallions
to the muck for a third time

i cast them aside
i always find objects
taunting inside the vessel
where one day
the dust of me
singed

will settle