Black Magic Bullet

These are my spells:
tucked in beneath my pillow.
They were written when I saw your
and colors shift
like a rainbow painted on water,
placid, rippling,
then shaken astir.

These are my curses:
scalpels peeling skin off my enemies,
“I do not love you.”
“I will never love you.”
They were written when the
sickeningly sweet smell of
cast off its blanket of wheathered newspapers
and made you icon on a pedestal
of cardboard, concrete, and dust.

These are my blessing:
A smile, a kiss, and a warm
like the scent of a pillow dried in the
“I do love you.”
“I have always loved you.”
They were written on the breath of a
when first you heard and slept
to your grandmother’s bedtime story
as she held your hand.

These are my glamours:
empty crosswords
without answers.
“Will she love me?”
“Will I love her?”
They were written with fog on the
promises of a vampire you
bid past
your bedroom threshold.

These are my illusions:
idle thoughts and migraines
trapped in a bubble
that will not burst.
“What is love?”
“What if, love?”
They were written in
when first you came
to confess
to every therapist on the phonebook
and begged for
Prozac, and

These are my enchantments:
the smell
of breasts heavy with milk and honey.
“Oh yes, I have loved!”
“Oh how, I have loved!”
They were written on the rays of
the sun
beaming down through the open rafters to
your lover’s face
on an early Sunday morning.

This is my magic:
one thing meaning another
like turning wine into water.
They were written
when first you knew



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