A new poem. Photograph by me.
Let’s call it a sacrifice
It must have worked, whatever killed it
: the drought has lost
its footing; except now, the once
named, being dead, is just that
—or a sacrifice, sufficient enough
to sate the appetite of a god.
i don’t believe in such fads,
but many do & whoever
they are, they’d speak carefully, something
or other, to this inert object,
throat like a purse turned inside out,
chest bloated with a final
breath, eyes fixed
in a manner, watchful.
Sitting down beside it,
touching its soft hair, they’d say
let there be more lives given,
that the gods are minded to stop
the weather spoiling our labours,
without petty anger, nor
distraction in their voice.
i put the back of my hand under
its nose & felt a weak draft
— whatever is happening,
it feels like an extension
of taking part in life.