our half understood incantations
by Katheryn Simpson
every day we utter incantations
begging our dead to return
between breakfast and our commute,
between bills and happy hour,
in all our day to day ordinary
we call to them in our ritual plays.
yes, under our common words
are spells half understood,
theatrics calling on the gods
to take us back in time.
unwittingly, we don ancient masks
each forged on another's face
(but every time we wear it
it looks more and more our own).
with a thousand magic plays
each in a different act,
are you surprised that this world
is a stage in chaos?
no director guides the wayward actors.
search the audience,
but the writers are gone:
they passed away long, long ago.
calling on the dead is easy,
going back in time, a blind comfort
the hardest incantation to utter
requires ten fingers
slowly pulling off the mask
so the bright stage lights
reflect off of our skin
and the hollows of our bones.
this new ritual comes with sacrifice:
tear off the ancient mask
carrying parts of our faces,
and burn the crumbling play
with lines rewritten in our blood.
then may we give the gods
a new play in our tongue,
letting our hearts grieve for
a past we cannot unwrite
and release our dead to finally rest.