Well, Yes, That’s the Joke

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.

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