Entreaty of the Ancient
Jennifer Ruth Jackson
Describe it, scribe
How the mountains taste
The sound the moon makes
As it sees its face
Stark, in ocean mirrors
Give me the scent of grief
So I can press it to me,
A dead flower preserved
To still resemble life
Return memories slick
With new ink of good old days
Make light with the dark liquid
Blotting your hands
Unravel me with universal secrets
Things I unknowingly desire
Yes, go on, describe
