but before the sun is completely forgotten,
find the growth that is strangling
the fruit tree.
Split it down its horny middle
with your shaman’s nail;
pulp out the translucent flesh
on your sky finger.
Hold it up
and see the moon, rising, out of round
and pink, through the mess.
Spit twice to the east and wipe your hand
on the moving ground. Leave nothing,
not even a stain, upon yourself;
see it there before you waiting to be abandoned.
Walk away. Find the nearest spring and wash naked
no matter how cold the source. This is enough,
you should tell yourself three times. Enough
to make the fruit tree whole again, to make its seeds
edible and fresh
wherever they eventually fall. Do not speak of this to anyone!
Let them think it was magic. Let them live unaware
of how it was: the cry of the tree upon being pierced,
the gross shudder of the earth upon receiving the pulp.
It is enough to live. Enough that you lived through it.
Enough that the knowledge exists, and that you will remember it.