Night Offering

If I bury the knife
in the sow’s dark entrails
then read what pools

beneath its dying head, will the end
that must nevertheless come
be persuaded to change its course?

If I whisper one more prayer to the sea,
will it wash an answer back amid the tangle
of moon jellies littering the beach?

They have no bones, no brains, no hearts:
only transparent skirts, wide and frilled,
etched with flickering light.


In response to Via Negativa: Open Sea.

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