"The Taoist Apprentice's Tailsman" poem

More about "The Taoist Apprentice's Tailsman" poem

The Apprentice's First Talisman

My brush hesitated -
cinnabar pooling like blood
on rice paper stretched taut
between discipline
and desire.

Master's voice scraped the air:
*"Ink follows will,
not wandering thoughts.
Each stroke must be
a blade through doubt."*

But my wrist remembered
last night's encounter -
how moonlight slid
off yellowed fingernails,
how the burial silks
whispered forgotten songs
with every stiff-legged hop.

I dipped my brush again,
adding what wasn't taught:
a curl at the character's tail
like an outstretched hand,
a dot of my own saliva
to bind the spell with hunger,
the barest hint of a question mark
where the invocation should end.

Now it hangs crooked
on my chamber door,
its vermilion strokes
pulsing faintly
when the temple bell tolls
for the dead.

Last evening,
I found fresh mud
on my threshold -
three neat circles
drying in the shape
of an answer.

Master says I'll learn
to make proper charms
with time.

But tonight
I'm grinding ink
with rainwater
collected during
the ghost hour,
wondering
if the jiāngshī
prefers poetry
to commands.