Rag & Bone

What hope do you have?
he asked the man
holding the sacrificial lamb—it was
spotless not a
mark, virgin fleece
white as god-damned
snow. I know.
You’ve
heard
it all

before.

It curled at the corners,
pirate map—not Where to
pillage, loot, and rape—
subscriptio, titulus—those kinds of
things (there may have been an exchange of
old coins)—and
ink, not blood,
something darker, licked
the page—pitch or
tar, acrid smoking a mile
underneath the
dead forest
floor
where things grew
once,
but not

anymore.

(c)2020 by Sanguine Woods

(Photo: Pinterest)

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