Small perfect wizards invade my home. They spread like fireworks.
At first I’m thinking they’re here to help, like cleaning or something. But I notice they’re not carrying out dirt or anything. In fact, they don’t seem to be doing much at all. They rearrange furniture. More and more of them arrive, emerge. And I realize that faint noise I keep hearing is just them trying to cast me out of my own house.
We go to the horse pharmacy. The horses walk slowly out. Leadened by pills. I eat some hay for my gut, I like it.
These days, the well is invisible. Lassie doesn’t fall in. Cops chase criminals they can’t find, aren’t looking for. The dried-up lake has become a shrine to water. History is happening as we speak but we don’t see it. On the path I see a neighbor but we don’t acknowledge each other. I hold your hand, but you’ve been gone forever.
is originally from Birdsboro, Pennsylvania. Her poems are at Maudlin House, Rattle, The Nervous Breakdown, Words and Sports Quarterly
, and forthcoming at Touch the Donkey
and Back Patio Press
. She currently lives in San Francisco, where her work leads her dog to slumber. Say hi at www.instagram.com/robynotheswede/