What marks the year. This candle. This procession. Dazzling sun clusters. Smoke at the altar. Waves of incense. Incensored. I held her and kissed her, drew the poison from her belly. Up and out and up. To air. One cheek. Then another. Insufficient. How calm she was! How sensitive to the damage! We regard the seasons cheerfully. Cruel fingers mark her mother like a passing.
An idol day. A high day. These things I have to attend to. This office. Let's concentrate on getting through. A female form within me. Her embrace is velvet. She asks me to heal her. I tell her I've tried. Embers at the altar. Voices in the kitchen. An altercation. There are horses in Mongolia that heal with silence. Gentle. Insouciant.
A blend of spiritualities shoots an opening through my veins. An aperture where the horses graze. Rapture. Too young to suffer torments. Too unknowing. I've found a field where we can go and watch the spinning. Our arms are full of offerings to forbidden deities.
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