Lamb Mouth (Night Heron Barks)

The cold month is coming and we are all sick with God-brain. Strike the match, light the prayer candle, speak their names. Our ancestor altar allows for coffee and pound cake. There is solace being found alone. A small tree in a burnt clearing. My girlhood gone bad. My nightgown slid. Sap from the bark where the knife stuck. The red fabric thaws on crisp sheets. I never wanted a virus. Sick with honey and fevered lamentations. Me with my lamb mouth. Her with her wolf-heart. Don’t offer me a rose and call this┬álove. This sanctity without blessing. I can taste the lamb blood on my lips. Red apples falling on orange leaves. Sweet, sweet. This is me stoking the fire. A sheep sacrificed in flames. Only comes clean when it burns.