sjsprWriting

I swear he kissed me first, but I don't

have evidence. I know the wine danced

in the glass like a siren, all lean in and slow blink.

I know the magnets in my palms spun until keys

flung themselves at us from all

directions. conjurers always have to be watching

their hands. spells bloom from simple gesture, simple

wishing, glancing touch. I know that I make things

happen-- I’m less good at making them stop. the want

always wants more. that the wine danced

is just evidence of magic messing

with the everyday. this happens

most often after dark. after the sun’s been forgotten

long enough for the moon to seem like honest

light. for the cab to seem like a vocabulary lesson

on the long ride to a small room, a test

of how much our tongues can lift before the temperature

shifts. to bloom is to rise like a creature

with perfect bones. to drift a hand across a forearm

at a bar is not magic or a promise, but evidence

of how want collides against itself to become visible.

when asked to explain how magnets work

in layman’s terms, the scientist said

I really can’t do a good job

of explaining magnetic force in terms

of something else that you’re more familiar with

because I don’t understand it in terms

of anything that you’re more familiar with.

why does the word palm dissolve in the mouth?

how to explain what stays on the body

for days, the kissed arm, a stain of mouths,

a well of hands, hands, want

and want and unstopping want. to watch

our hands is not to stop them from conjuring,

but to know where they’re headed. to know

what they’ve sheltered, all they’ve let go. to bloom

is to build something for as long as it’s needed,

then release. this doesn't stop the wanting.

doesn't unravel the spell or make the magnet

any less magic. it does make for a more beautiful

morning, though. the sun with so much promise,

so lit, it almost hurts to look at.