Jubilee
A little more each year
the blood drains from our
faces, our bodies grow
stickier, we mumble
our names more uneasily and,
because we can scarcely
believe it, our age.
But today our hands
are coveted
objects. And our heads,
which, tipsy but
laurelled, bend
at the pressure of their
lips, are circled by their
piercing tongues.
But though the circle shrinks and
silence descends a little sooner
each year on our feast, not a word’s
spoken in anger. Today
we’re that most worshipped
of beasts: the party pig. Or insect.
The web is almost done.