I tried first the essentials: called corners,
anointed candles in rosemary oil,
latched lavender under my knuckles,

burnt cedarwood helixed with sage,
tucked beneath my pillowcase stars
of anise halved by a bone-handled knife.

Still no lightning licks at my chin,
still, the foxglove’s long unsinging
mouth, the itch of mold in my ears.

Still, these sharp-ribbed dreams,
these incantations that end in an echo
& begin return, return. I want to know

what to bury at dusk, how long to follow
the nightjar, how many moths to pluck,
thrashing, from the wolfspider’s web.

Come, cloudburst. Sing, flower. O, low
unharrowed ventricle, return. Body,
by what magic can I turn you back?