A. Prevett

ripejawceremony

You won’t need a perfect moment, won’t need
home-grown, compost-fed, off-the-grid kind of time. 
You will need only a tight bundle
of acorns, a few hushed sighs. Your nails 
can be any color: puke green, creature blue.
On your doorstep there should be either a dog 
or a neglected houseplant. There’s no need 
to identify which. Your name should be the one you would give
to an alien if you were the first person it met. 
Your name should be chosen. Actually, 
your nails should be the brightest pink you can find, 
one that doesn’t occur in the natural world. Pinkies and toes, too. 
Coat all their glorious, knobby digitness in it. 
Use the excess to mark the places on your jaw which 
dissatisfy you most. If it helps, pretend that that curved thing 
is your life. Once dry, take everything—your acorn bundle, 
your chosen name, all your bones and lacquer—take them all 
outside. Step over your welcome mat, over 
the neglected doghouse. You have to 
step over them, otherwise it won’t count. 
Find a patch of lawn, your neighbor’s
if you must. Wrap your toes around the necks 
of as many grass blades as you can. 

Now thrash. 
Thrash in the rain. 
Thrash like no one were 
waiting. Like your jaw 
depended on it.