Voodoo

The palanquin's embellished
and the hour is saturated with
bigotry.  I have castigated
this inchoate night with the vein
of a valiant, contrariwise to
my writing of these lines:
desultory of ink/dissipated of sin;
we are far beyond exhuming
deaths.  The bones are rank
with freshness of life, flesh seizures
under the evolution after burial
and the hour awaits its master.
A few strands, a photo, needle,
blood from the juiciest rose
and a single stitch.  The hour is
locked.

First published in Pyrokinection [Kind of a Hurricane Press]