[I was told the best rituals]

I was told the best rituals 
are cast by children

inside covert forts, hedges
carved out by older 

siblings or the wolf-man from 
a nightmare in the nineteenth 

century. In their spaghetti jars: 
ghosts, not June bugs or ladybirds or 

unreasonable expectations 
to be happy. Some children are not 

happy. Some rake their own
backs with pinion

pinecones & play possum 
under their father’s duvet & 

some make potent teas—
concocted potion of molecules— 

rage wrapped in devotion & 
some keep diaries on how to trap 

light, rituals that sever 
the head of anyone 

who grows up without 
healing their wounds.