He is beyond bronze, not tarnished but with sheen
As black as blue is black at night

returning to the cave, he kneels
lights a candle, waxy hard lard lump, inverted cone
his opposite, taken from death
molded upward, to drip only from life’s end

prepares the ritual, lights the flame
passes flickering wick across length and breadth
rousing reams of stench from charcoaled curls
hairless again, re-purified

thus prepared, he kneels
kisses and caresses his curved kris
re-writes an ancient ritual
inserts the angled blade between tendons at the wrist

Pressure paints and drains black skin to white
Forcing blood away from shining steel

in one upward stroke, quick and clean
flays, first, his forearm, cuts to shoulder, arcs down torso
deprives himself the pleasure of the sticky trickle from his fingertips
carves through his groin, peels flesh from legs

Still soaked in darkness, he glistens red
Skin dangles like a damp placenta

his molting complete, again the candle’s raised
already-coagulating blood burnt from glistening to brown
slimy sinews baked to blackness, hardened shell
crisped to armor by the drooling, sloppy flame

from his medicine bag draws two stones
not twins, rather opposites:
a dull, smoothed stone to shine his skin
a brilliant, sharp-edged stone to shape and trim

rearmored, tailored, shaved and shaped physique
restored to former definition, musculature reharnessed
oiled with pine pitch from his totem bag
arises, leaves the cave-womb, enters sunlight

He shines back the daylight, bronze and clean
As black as blue is black at night

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ChaoSpirals