Chain, Spell #87, and White
by Hari B. Parisi
Chain A secret is only a thought, a thought, not a razor blade, not a razor blade, not cyanide, not cyanide, but deadly, deadly if kept long enough, long enough and you forget, forget that it mattered, mattered that you lost something, lost something irretrievable, were given the secret instead.
Spell #87 for women only Drink still water from a blue glass. Eat no food. Fight with someone you love (preferably male) about something trivial, such as how he makes gravy, ties his shoes. Strip naked. Memorize your body. You needn’t touch it, but it won’t hurt. Sit in the sun. Don’t look at your watch. Tears can be a problem. Throw on a red scarf if there’s a welling up. Friends may notice that you aren’t there. It’s not your concern. When the sun begins to fall, you must spin—first towards what you fear most, then towards what you desire. They may be the same. Walk until you are in tall grass bent by the wind. Beaver and red-tailed hawk are there. Press your face to the earth, your chest and loins. Linger. Slip into the waters. Join the salmon. Swim upstream.
White Swans on a mirror. Winter. Switzerland. Basel, perhaps. The question: why? What do you think— if there were no war, no women, or time to weep, death without ifs. Could we, my sweet, consider the worth of swallowing whole not answers but sparrows? Whales, the swinging tides, weighing how the great maw wails us back, wants us to wend—swim in her seamless bowl, her willow of always. And when you ask, I say Not now, sit here awhile— touch cobwebs, wheat, the small bones in our wrists. I say, why don’t we, love, wait until tomorrow?

Hari B. Parisi’s (formerly Hari Bhajan Khalsa) poems have been published in numerous journals and are forthcoming in The Blood Pudding, Two Hawks Quarterly and Inklet. She is the author of three volumes of poetry, most recently, She Speaks to the Birds at Night While They Sleep, winner of the 2020 Tebot Bach Clockwise Chapbook Contest. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband.
