Ritual

After dusk
but before the sun is completely forgotten,

find the growth that is strangling
the fruit tree.

Split it down its horny middle
with your shaman’s nail;

pulp out the translucent flesh
on your sky finger.

Hold it up
and see the moon, rising, out of round

and pink, through the mess.
Spit twice to the east and wipe your hand

on the moving ground.  Leave nothing,
not even a stain, upon yourself;

see it there before you waiting to be abandoned.
Walk away. Find the nearest spring and wash naked

no matter how cold the source.  This is enough,
you should tell yourself three times.  Enough

to make the fruit tree whole again, to make its seeds
edible and fresh

wherever they eventually fall.  Do not speak of this to anyone!
Let them think it was magic.    Let them live unaware

of how it was: the cry of the tree upon being pierced,
the gross shudder of the earth upon receiving the pulp.

It is enough to live.  Enough that you lived through it.
Enough that the knowledge exists, and that you will remember it.