ISSUE 11

Lynn Thayer

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Spellbound

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We conjure love through witchcraft, tell the sky to hold on tight! that we’ll make room in our abdomens for the moths & comets & afterlife knowing this one, this life right here in the underbelly of chaos’s ambivalent cloud, will never bring us near enough to touch.

 

We adapt. Solidify, bide, break away at the right time, cold wind // hot stagnation & we fall, screaming, renewing as raindrops thumping against sound waves, currents, screaming the only two names we know: before & after. 

 

I say the spell wrong. Say wet ozone against dirtied doves instead of petrichor face with hands like feathers. It’s risky, taking all this time away from the earth & exposing the sky for what she is: lover & threat. Lovers & the devil; tarot will always hit the mark on your brow of disbelief.

 

The milk inside my body wasted, rusted & I give nothing that won’t come back in spades. Hands soiled, your grave hovers like a spring storm, unleashing discord & growth, chrysalis & broken bone. Leashing hope’s tendril, the same flavor we raged at that night on the prairie, bucket of rainwater for bathing, baptize the witchcraft right out of my breath

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