April
Ritual
by Scott
J. Ecksel
With
lipstick on the mirror, I draw my face. I outline my cheeks in blood
red gloss. I thumbprint smudge my iris. I blush my chin and throat
and scrape my nail down through the color for my lips for accent.
My face in silhouette a stain.
Around my face I crush a circle with yellow dye. Through the dye my
image cracks. It's me looking out. It's me looking in. I spit in my
eyes, bleeding red and yellow through the circle always cracked with
crevices anything could slip through.
Nothing slips through my circle nothing slips through my circle nothing
slips through my circle nothing slips through my circle. I sing it
chant it scream it howl it cry it force it still it hold it shut it
shut it shut it shut it nothing slips through my circle.
With sky-blue blood in wavering ellipses on the mirror, I complete
my face. My eyes are far away, looking in me, looking out me.
The ritual is over. It's not me. It was never me. It's only me. I
eat the chalk.
