Ritual

Oliver Baez Bendorf

Even the yellow rose, the lake, even earth.
Life—not days strung together. The fire, the clearing.
Know what I mean? Rocks, Carlos’ fist, my body—
everything was a circle.

Our thighs was cold as rocks circling the river.
Snow covered the meat. Carlos.
We lit cherry wood. With Carlos’ arrows, we

shot
new
constell-
ations
into
the
sky
      (believing
               that
               new
               ones
               were
               possible) —

flies circled us faster
                                         at times throughout the
day and night. The kind of clearing where my breasts
was unmistakable.       Some of us was quiet
in our skin until some of us was barefoot,
some of us faded into the
boulders with no sound – my whole life rose up,
ghosts into the flame.

                                                                    Vultures
circle overhead while we dig

for fossils, not of us. I bring a vial.
Someone breaks the seal. The smoke
feels warm, almost loving.

                              We fly all night.