By Kat Terban

This is the point of death, where
the land sits empty, all pith and flesh
carved out, the sun sets and finally
I am free to roam, collect up the souls
loosened and left in fleeting flickers
that can be snuffed to rest
beneath and below.

Open your thresholds, lay out a place
for me, fill me up with rustling leaves,
give me acorn eyes, a pumpkinseed
mouth, and weave the last of the wheat
for my hair. Remember that I walk
the night holding hands with those
gone from sight but not from heart.

Light the fires anew, sink your fingers
into the earth, scrape my skin clean
with birch twigs to ready yourself
for the long night before new
beginnings bloom.

Kat Terban is a writer who cracks open the flesh of words to taste the marrow of their meaning. They like to sink their feet into sweet tufts of clover under the midnight sun and peel back the skin of the world to discover the inevitable.

Published 10/29/20

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