a little hymn for lostlings

it’s the sound of shadowed bark firming your posture

pressed against tree in attempts to reclaim the ritual

we’re jagged until we’re not and we’re dizzy when enticed to be so

i can crave anything if i try hard enough to stay unsatiated

the potential offerings dripping from my body

salt sweat memory all filling the vial

there are bodies in this forest

i can smell them through the flora

vacant save their bones, waiting for something

holy to return, in a corporeal sort of way

in an abject salacious sort of way

where reanimated they would climb these gnarly trees

scream into the wandered night

a distilling hymn to fill the cup

to weep in the bloodlust

***

m.v. riasanovsky (they/them) is a nonbinary, queer, disabled, and autistic poet living in the foothills of the Blue Ridge mountains in central Virginia. They have self-published several zines and have been part of DIY/alt-lit writing communities. They are a grant writer and are passionate about leftist movements. Find more of their writing here: mvriasanovsky.tumblr.com