"What's the world for you if you can't make it up the way you want."

-Jazz, Toni Morrison


sometimes things collide by chance and A Conjuring

sometimes things collide by chance and A Conjuring

sometimes things collide by chance

don’t look so longingly at the door
we are sweethearts
and such
up from the bloody gorge
black hair frontier
I hear your dead heroes howl in the night
they wake me from my dreams
and drag me to the refrigerator
in search of the coldest glass of water
your half-breed grit carries me unwavering
into the sledge-hammer dawn

we are an intercourse of
title and obsession
possessed by possession
don’t look so longingly at the door

look instead towards the sky
somewhere in the air is the scent of roses
the scent of roses and driftwood and trees
somewhere out there, there is wilderness
and we seek only the empty spaces
a colonial infatuation
we decry the occupation
these woods are full
of some sort of grit
that carries you through
into the sledge-hammer dawn

some hundred feet in the air there is no danger
and we are sweethearts and such

 

 

 

A Conjuring

Sometimes thoughts
appear when
there is no place to write
(them
down).
No napkin. 
Not even
a bit of envelope. 
Not even
a piece of mail
mistakenly
delivered to your house. 
Not even
a phone with
6% charge. 

No tablecloth or jar of blackberry jam. 

And still we do the work,

     somehow. 

Reciting the words over and over like an incantation through the dark:

     we must be magic.


Cara Lang lives and works in Vancouver, BC. She'd always rather be by the sea. Instagram: @carabwrites

Cover photo by SpaceX on Unsplash

black porcelain. and complex.

black porcelain. and complex.

Our Birthday

Our Birthday

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