In winter’s last rationing of light
set out your implements of alchemy,
your snug utensils of conjury,
your beakers and powders, glass
wands and amulets. Wipe dust
and stain from your table, carve
a block of ice from the glacier’s lip.
Drop it in a tall glass.
Before it begins to melt, whisper
an incantation of constellations
in a language you do not speak.
Take a small scoop from the moon
with a long-handled silver spoon.
Gather fog from the horizon
or from a cleft of pine-clad hills.
Drizzle it into the glass.
Do not be alarmed if the moon
begins to shiver.
At midnight local time
fill a small vial with darkness.
Tip it so the darkness streaks the fog
and stains a bit of the moon.
On a scrap of paper from the pocket
of a coat long-unworn
write seven questions.
Murmur the questions into the glass
only until it is full.
Do not allow the contents to spill over.
Crumple the paper and bury it
in your garden. Slip a hollow reed
into the glass and sip slowly
as you ponder the answers.
J.I. Kleinberg lives in Bellingham, Washington, and on Instagram @jikleinberg. She is the author of The Word for Standing Alone in a Field (Bottlecap, 2023), How to pronounce the wind (Paper View, 2023), Desire’s Authority (Ravenna Press Triple No. 23, 2023), She needs the river (Poem Atlas, 2024), and Sleeping Lessons (Milk & Cake, 2025). All of We is forthcoming from Anhinga Press.
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