Salt the relics and turn the wine
that conjured vinegar from yams and yeast.
Tradition is a jester and a jailor.
Sister! The hex on the table –
You lied in the spring, you lied in the rain.
Empty seat and shattered cup are the devil’s tax.
Pay your toll and tithe, selfish girl,
in blasphemous stellar parallax.
I served you the spring, I hid you from the rain.
The foods here are raw and crushed –
the cranberry sauce, my pain.
December the Last, 2015