Jack of Many Trades

New Moon

Originally posted: 2016-10-31

there is incense and honey and wine there is the figure on the altar glass eyes catching the candleflame there is music pounding out the beat while I chant

there is a headbutt against my ankles warmth, humming thanks the sense of her in my lap weight on my legs, claws digging casually into my calves and I reach out of habit to scritch and touch nothing then I understand how long it's been since she was actually here

there are arms around my shoulders heavy, muttering nothings quiet like she always was, waiting for me to talk and me not knowing what to say but it doesn't matter anymore maybe it didn't then either

doesn't she look like Blackie Blackie died when I was a toddler I don't remember her but I agree the weight in my lap readies itself, jumps higher than she had in years, is caught by insubstantial arms

I'm so glad you called and I'm proud of you and too soon well I'd better be letting you go I don't want to let go but there's a different hand on my shoulder now, black marble, linen-draped, and it's time

the offerings go to the crossroad the rain has stopped for the moment her presence is solid when I begin and by the end I am alone I leave her altar bare in the dark