It rises like a djinn, crackles and burns
as it shapes itself into a forked tongue,
the ends coming to snatch my eyes.
This is not what the Internet said
would happen. Esphand purifies, protects.
Or so the superstition goes. The tears
sting like vinegar, and the smoke shifts
into a chorus of open mouths
laughing at my ignorance. There is no respite:
this is the air I have made. I’ve burned
what was meant to be planted.
My malevolence surprises me, as if shattering
a mirror and gazing upon fractals
of blurred history, unrecognizable and still
familiar in their brokenness.
The smoke’s sharp edge scratches my throat,
searching for a way out. I know its desperation.
Does it matter where a thing is learned,
if I am trying my best? I do not know
who else in my family burns, or burned.
Does this rite still cleanse if I don’t believe in it all the way?
With a swallow, I calm what’s left of the flame,
open a window of this empty house.
The half of me whose ritual this is
was never supposed to be here.