ON THE CORPSE ROAD
- Mar 21
- 1 min read
By Madeleine Dale
Walk me to the covered bridge –
that far, at least. Under green rush & heather thatch
there is no snowfall, or dead
leaves gathered. Skin flashes in the dark river and I
cannot say my own rites –
our prayers have been stolen from our mouths.
We must reconstruct the ritual by hand.
This will be like opening a bruise – old blood
on the altar knife, a new language of mourning
inherited from whorls of dead timber. Summons
of salt and evergreen. I watch you leave.
Nobody taught me the incantation to call you back.