poem03 Sep 2018 08:37 am

Her wails draw rings of fire
around my bed; in combat

a psychic makes me wash my hair
with sea, and the roots come undone

almost as if by gratis. He says her wails will
travel the trenches occupying caves underwater –

the place where seafolks dwell:
(we whisper their names
lest they come to being).

It is how it is, he enunciates the air
with a low voice. And I travel into past
tense. It must be returned to

the throat that delivers these wails; as if by
skill of the dual-tailed living deep in waters

of the kind we bathe with to release
knots tied in our strands. The whole

point about blind belief is in questioning
nothing; is in letting the power of

an aging scry heal you; is to forget you
ever caused her empty promises. Now,

the sea begins to shudder on my wet scalp,
murmuring echoes like carbonite chemicals.

The psychic tells me this is initiation; the way
for dowsing to find home; her wails tell me

clearer of inhabitation – how her body is
a field of clovers, entities of the sea take her

as theirs every night. Drops of the sea
trickle down my back the length of my hair;

whispering back my understanding of how
I was a blank slate, of how she fell onto it

like braille, while he presses a dry cloth
to my forehead, invoking the jinn to cease.

By GO69 – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=65084170

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