The ritual demands the usual sacrifice.
A young man or a young woman or one of each.
It really doesn’t matter.
The presumption of uneasy innocence, of virginity pleading to be put past.
This is where you come in.
Tease those tensions to the breaking point.
Stroke the apples fallen all around the silver trunk.
Tilt back your head, run your fingers through your hair, mime a nymph caught in a sudden shower.
And if they hover on the dull side of the threshold, moaning that they see neither apples nor cascade, then convince them that their blindness shall be lifted; make
your body the mirror of a proven paradise.
Whisper:
‘come to me …
having waited all your short life now’s not the time to dawdle …
come to me quickly, come to me now.’