I make knots for a living,
knots for the dead, twisting in and around
upon themselves, like thoughts tangled,
choking the dialogue.

I forge my golem from flax.
Without knots, a rope is nothing.
Swifts don't fly straight, they swing
as they scream.

The sack is over his head.
I creak the lever
and the knots make a happy fist
to ring the bells of corpse.

My lonely knots live
for this.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.