THE TRICKSTER, DEAD

Make your offerings at the crossroad
where he hangs all winter,
bleeding water.   Leave a bit
of bread, a bag of blood, a finger,
your good right ear.  

Perhaps
you’ll see him move in the shadow
on the edge of vision when the moon
slivers thin before sunrise.  His
mother sits in her cave,
singing while she spins.

Sometimes
you will hear her, melodious as owls.
There was nothing you could do
to save him.  If you cut him down,
he will die again.  If you let him
be, now and then he’ll live.

Never
think about him, do not let him infect
your dreams.  If you believe 
what he tells you, 
he will never
let you go.   

 

Another trickster poem.  I can’t help it.
 
 
 

 

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