He Draws the Seven of Swords
︎︎︎ C. Sandbatch
︎ July 16, 2026
Would that you came
to your beloved,
swift as a gazelle,
crossing wastes in leaps—
legs racing,
limbs afire,
an ordeal: your whole body
pierced with fear.
After you, ever after: the hunter,
and the smiling dog beside him.
But this body’s dust, its trail,
eludes the chasers.
For now.
For ever.
Finding yourself before the bear’s tooth,
look to the spider’s seventh eye, unsleeping,
black where the night-sky snow gathers,
coldly regarding you and what has followed.
Offer instead the summons given you:
blood from the thumb, a small candle,
one little flame from the house you fled,
set down before your beloved;
then we shall rest the rest of death.
to your beloved,
swift as a gazelle,
crossing wastes in leaps—
legs racing,
limbs afire,
an ordeal: your whole body
pierced with fear.
After you, ever after: the hunter,
and the smiling dog beside him.
But this body’s dust, its trail,
eludes the chasers.
For now.
For ever.
Finding yourself before the bear’s tooth,
look to the spider’s seventh eye, unsleeping,
black where the night-sky snow gathers,
coldly regarding you and what has followed.
Offer instead the summons given you:
blood from the thumb, a small candle,
one little flame from the house you fled,
set down before your beloved;
then we shall rest the rest of death.