A Spell to Transform Some Ancestral Baggage

Take all the ferocity

the pettiness

the moribund qualities

of your dearly departed

of your father,

of your mother,

of all their mothers and fathers' fathers' mothers

trap them in a small, small box

fill it with flowers

drop it into the nearest sea

which at this hour, should be filled with sunshine,

at least from whatever angle you're looking

on sunday or monday or tuesday or wednesday

it doesn't matter.

Let the salt water seep into the box, into their bones,

with a twist through the spongey tissue

and burn away at it and feel this in your own bones

for the ankle deep

and the fathoms deep,

belly of the beep

and hold me up

when i'm floating,

let me down

gently into the waving arms of clowns

(you shouldn't have to guess)

What you think is pure is really a mess.