The sacred indian ghost pipe
like true love arises from places obscure
and needs a trinity to thrive.
Conifers and deciduous trees
and dark, deep soil of the forest floor
where mushrooms, magic and superstitions grow.
It arises pale, bled by introspection,
the haunts of ghosts we rent ourselves
and pay with loneliness and loss.
Then comes bread and sugar,
the ghost pipe begets from pines.
We, from our lover.
The face of the fertilized flower
turns upright
even with a pale, pink blush
as carnal meets conscience.
Messenger,
mine
from the dark underworld
saturnine and bloodless.
The torch of a carnelian heart
makes the indistinguishable visible.
New light, new land, new trajectory
for my soul.
I watch mesmerized as summer burns
diamonds from coal,
death and rebirth the same
reflected in the light and fire
of the carnelian heart.
Yours.