 This one's called the Spell to Summon Today's Demon. We draw a circle with one another's arms. We draw ourselves arm in arm. We hold each other tight. Know our borders. From here, we can see an equation of uniforms and authority. And we promise each other, I will not let you vanish. We hold. Defined as all here seem to be, what water did you cross? What water did your ancestors cross? Mine force-marched to the Mississippi, shipped as cargo across the Atlantic, in steerage through the Baltic, your trip is measured in water. Water traveled, water breathed, waterless in a cell from here, we can see an equation of uniforms and authority, masks that take their name, that make them anonymous, cruel. We, circling one another with arms, promise if you, then me. Your poem, my poem. We hold tight. This is called, When Protection Has Become. After the word has been bought and paid for, they announce the beginning, and call it after something they own. Word, they torture it, pull away the skin of it with slow intention, membrane from meat, tiny movements of the smallest knife, lifting out the bleeding core, the best spells take patience, take muscle. Every recut word has a core of money, a core of fear in our criminal enterprise. We peel pressed words from large family traditions out of the creases of our unnamed, impossible, extinct lives. We set our unowned words on the scatterwinds, our feral, bolted words, improvised and flying, so that they will fall slowly in unimagined heroic healing in border cages and secret hysterical cells in meetings of the important and the terrified to give them back their birth name. Thank you.