The Blood Moon draws near.

The merrymakers have left
a head behind,
out in the empty field.

The rest is scattered,
but the head alone
remains,
a head alone.

If we take him home
and hang him in the
smokehouse, he will
cure to a warm brown.
Perhaps, if we sit with him,
chanting until late,
he’ll speak and tell
us Future,
or Past,
or some time
only he remembers.

The merrymakers left
his head out in the field.
(Crows are flocking—
hurry!)
His head alone remains,
his head alone.

Build him a shrine;
he’ll sing of sun and rain,
of wind, of why trees are
green and where the
spark of life goes
After.

If we burn for him candles,
myrrh and sage, if we
float him down the river
in a little wicker boat
to the isle of willows,
will he, fool-sacrifice,
be our eyes--
our protector--
our Oracle?

© Juliet Waldron 1975