At the end of whatever lightless era
We have known
We come to a small clearing in the wood.
The hut there rests on two clacking Bones
And a chicken’s heart.
The birds are abundant, but their dark notes
Fill the air with horror.
Every eon we will find this place
And whatever boy or girl lands there
In the night
Will walk up to the flickering threshold
And innocently open the door.
Inside, Granny will still be stirring
Her millennial porridge,
Crumbling every horrendous herb
And lizard’s tongue
Into its molten mixture.
Then that small, unsuspecting child
Will be asked a question,
And though we don’t know what it is,
Afterwards the sun will either rise or not rise,
The void will either slumber or awake.
Seth Jani currently resides in Seattle, WA and is the founder of Seven CirclePress (www.sevencirclepress.com). His own work has appeared throughout the small press in such places as The Foundling Review, The Hamilton Stone Review, Hawai`i Pacific Review and Black Heart Magazine. More about him and his work can be found at www.sethjani.com.
Artwork: Kindra Nikole, “the summoning”