A Vision at the River of Blood
His mind becomes a chalice,
the sweet smell fills the hall.
Perceval collapses in the doorway
and his mother cries from her farm.
Along the river of blood,
they see the guiding light of a star.
There is a sword in bone white stone
and a mask slipping from the wall.
A candlelight burning,
let me hang from the mossy tree,
beneath the missiles like shining stars.
Where she sought to take their heads.
Follow the tracks of fire
and the map of constellations.
The earth opened and blood ran,
immaculate between stone and heaven.
You must know yourself to pass,
moult and you shall have it.
The fisher’s head was served
upon the platter.
Ceramic Throats
Far away, the barn burns
birds call
and knights fall
in the dark, the summer light
green men
and pressed stars
blood of Christ
holy rites
noose knots
and scattered thoughts
between the rocks
ceramic throats
make flesh, renovate
That Cup is not a Cup
Believe me, that word
which falls on castle walls
that voice is not a voice
the hiccup sky,
swollen butterflies
pheasant eyes
tied down, crisscross
on the floor
believe me, that cup
is not a cup
which you sap feverishly
that lance is a ladder
fall is coming, fall is dead
winter is moving
every acre
under the meteoric liturgy
undone vessel
undone weaving
undone mind
consecrated wound
and idiotic vessel
of ruin and ruined symbols
— Brendan Brewster is a poet and teacher from the East Coast of Canada. His work explores the collision of folklore, liminal spaces, and the deconstructions of modern myth. Previously featured in The Grapevine, Celtic Frog, and APOCALYPSE CONFIDENTIAL.