12: Green
You couldn’t tell blacks from greens,
violets, blues. I chose
your socks, arranged gardens,
joked when binding cords
clashed with your robes. That
was the easy part——my job.
But when the power went out
before Yule, you sent
me to chalk sigils in the shed.
“Make them bright enough
for Dee’s angels to see
what they must do, & obey.”
Thick lines. ( Same
as the rest of us, I guess. )
You knew to press your black
teas for storage & trade.
That green lost its flavor
in a year. How could I
share your tongue, your tastes?
I knew English, not
Enochian. As green as I was
——with you, your ceremony——
you left me to the open air.
The air in me. These rules,
wax cooling. ( Light
candles. ) For our work, black’s
the same as the rest. Copy.
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