My soul stains the worksheet—
tears, rust, and carbon.
The last of those, easiest to erase, in case
the pallid scratches of my pencil
abjured the twenty-six god pantheon
I worshiped under duress.
Rather—
I lay, prostrate on the page,
desperate for communion, but
our pedagogue tells me the gods
require a kneeling prayer.
“It says so in the syllabus.”
By then, I had already drowned in the salty font.
My carbon soul, unrefined.
And in Asphodel, I thought:
“How important, to be legible.”