A Litany of Stains
There is a place where words do not rest: they pool and darken until they find a shape.
We found it by accident—by running a finger along a margin, by misreading a footnote.
The shrine keeps what cannot be kept; it keeps also the manner in which the keepers are changed.
Do not ask for names. Where names lie, the ink will answer instead.
the scribe's reservoir
an urn of old ink that remembers pressure and light
When the reservoir is cupped, people weep without knowing why; when it is emptied, text grows thin and hungry.
index of redactions
fragments of citations that point to absence
The index is ordered by the severity of omission. The most redacted entries hum at night.
liturgical stain (moving)
a blot that migrates along lines between dusk and dawn
It neither eats nor is eaten; it simply travels. Those it touches recall names they never knew.
If thou wouldst offer anything, offer silence and an old page; the shrine favors small, quiet gifts.
Return once the blot remembers thy face. Return when the page has softened around your name.
— amen