Robert Beveridge
The hag taps the rim
of the pot three times,
adds the crushed
garlic balanced
on the knife’s blade.
The smell climbs
the scaffold in spirals,
seeks the outer
reaches of the sky,
beyond birds, beyond
balloons. Beyond even
air, but it discovers
it cannot launch itself
away from its host,
like a man suspended
from a church bell
whose neck will be
snapped at the end
of the matins service.
Clamor 