Lacuna; Imbolc by Erin Emily Ann Vance

Lacuna

We found a warning carved into a rock

so my brothers rolled it into the culvert

on the side of the road.

It said to not sleep while the crops burn,

to make daisy chains and sip broth.

To rest, reclined in a nest of pillows

thrown from passing pickup trucks onto the gravel road.

We came home to a warning over the cellar door

where the saws are kept,

grinning with their teeth barred and

dripping with the damp.

We blistered at the warning

carved into the bone handle

of my father’s knife—it rests beneath a pillow,

a bloom of mould. Do not sleep with the windows

open, but do not shut out the breeze.

Sip broth made from badger bones, make flower crowns

and lay them as offerings

at the mouth of the culvert.

I woke to a warning carved into my cheek

it says not to leave the stone perimeter

it says to repent

for the sins

of my brothers

and the sins of my father

his bone-handled knife,

their stone-skip silence.

Imbolc

In the smouldering village

we lace dead butterflies

into the collars of our dresses

because it pleases the devil.

Sometimes a boy gallops

from the cathedral

to the river

with a large net

ready to gift the devil

new garments.

In the smouldering village

the key to a good harvest

is to make your offerings

razor blade thin.