In the sacred morning we grow new habits so strong
that the song precedes the song.
Before the needle drops.
And what is ritual but a compulsion toward alignment
with the gods known and unknown,
the ones whose absence thins our blood,
the ones we shun.
And we are bound and a rebound to this thing simultaneously
of and not of
our own making.
(Depends how far you see.)
You see?
We
were not meant to be thus.
Thus,
what even are we?
The women in the water tried to teach it then receded.
The patriarchs of the word called them mermaids –
fantastical –
and so dismissed Our need to heed their Song.
They demanded silence.
They turned their backs.
And we too –
still –
are turning day to day unto the final Fall.
Then,
what even will we be?
looking for roots 