It was a new year, or the eve of one. It was 
a night powdered with firecracker smoke. 
You were a child who'd already learned 
not to be afraid of a world whose spirits 
could be called by the sounds of simple 
invocation. Which is to say, Come here; or 
Here she is. Here I am. There's no need for 
a hundred-year gift, or an animal sacrifice 
after weeks of having penned its bleating 
in the outhouse.  A glittering ribbon of flies, 
the only witnesses every time  someone  
pulled on a cord to flood the room with light. 
What isn't visible goes as an echo of tiny wings;
hovers over every lip glossed with water.

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