I want to be promised magic these days: to be lifted up by a power I could never truly understand. These days, magic isn’t prevalent; or, it is, but it can’t promise not to murder you.
My religion has only ever been the scripture in the dead wren’s bones, the buzzing hymn of entrails on a deserted road, the incense of brush fires on a November wind, the face of a lover under a calico moon.
Even memory is a kind of incantation we use to summon the past out of will. I should relearn to breathe life into clay pigeons: release them into the sky, living. Our hands have enough blood in them to become lakes. Our galaxy is sluicing down a dark, deep drain. Eyes can be taught to see better through the night.
Wherever you go, there it follows: a kind of beast that you cannot see or touch, and yet, feel. Magic only wants for you to acknowledge it humbly. Every day a miracle granted but not always realized. All these tyrants, who have erased and forgotten the sages, tell them that each day is a day closer to discovering what we should do with our hands.
Samuel J Fox is a bisexual poet and essayist living in North Carolina. He is a poetry editor at (b)OINK; he is poetry editor at Orson’s Review. He appears in Muse/A Journal, Maudlin House, Grimoire Magazine, and The Occulum. He has been nominated twice for Best of the Net and once for a Pushcart. Find him on Twitter.