Ritual

Red front doors open up
out to a view of just the river
in the places where it weaves
throughout the city.
Everything depends on enough people
waking up when they’re supposed to,
keeping everything alive.
Once we have it we don’t like going back.
Unmaking to us is like an admission
we were wrong somehow
but look where we are now
and tell me this is home.
Knife handles made of bone,
attached to metal so well polished
you could see your self more clearly
than a mirror; hang off a magnetized strip
over the sink in some old camper
that never starts like its supposed to
with a key turn.
We pass flames around and call it
something magical
because it makes us have a new idea
about ourselves.
We aren’t alive with no control over
the slightest things that nature
has in store for us, but honored names
among our equals having a night
that stretches far into the day.

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