Letting bees buzz across every last inch
of your landscape—
that was the ritual.
To weigh your heart against a feather, even though you’ve been eating rocks.
We didn’t count the stars that night
to go to sleep.
We didn’t sleep at all.
The stars strained their necks in curiosity at what we were up to.
Though they should know,
having bursted into their own destiny
over and over.
Step one, die.
Slough off the dead tissue
from your living flesh.
Step two, cross the threshold of desire into your unfathomable.
Step three, return.
Your face will look different. Your eyes seem to know something new.
Whatever your heart weighs now,
only you and the wind know.
Annihilation and humility will be added to your vocabulary.
You may pronounce love with a different accent.
The ceremony is discrete.
The ceremony is discreet and messy.
The ceremony will birth a thousand stories
each new one holding
all the previous ones.
The ceremony will never end.