Allie Nelson/Dances with Tricksters

Dances with Tricksters

There’s a crooked path behind the old graveyard, follow the scent of roses and the smell of baptismal waters, eat the rose hips off the dog roses burnished green and golden crimson, taste the waves and salt. Your ancestors are here, the fisher of men walks on the sea, at the top of Lighthouse Hill is a moment you will always remember, peridot and diamond and rose gold, and a man you plucked from your imagination has immortalized love for you in the spot your great-grandmother honeymooned, and your Yule wedding is the same day as Mema and Grandpa, and you offered whiskey and shells and seagull feathers to the table of the ancestors, where four generations of your kin are buried, and Grampy and Nana feasted below, and someday they will take your ashes, both entwined, and plant you in the ground here in this fragile shell like a…

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