Her Grimoire

So, she breathes. Do you believe in God 

like the rest of them? Birch-light

rains down the wall, moving silent

as a voice. You don’t know what to say. So you lie 

down under the coverlet

& let her carve into you with a pair 

of dragon eyes

which she insists are not brown 

but hazel. Curiosity is a teenage girl 

who sleeps over sometimes. The 

laces of her gold high-tops are 

tangled on the carpet. She prods & 

starts fires. She’s barefoot &

still chasing. You are terrified 

of what she can awaken in you 

when a wand of starlight slips 

down her cheekbone.

You consider holding it

—the word “no” in your mouth—

you consider how heavy it weighs 

to fall straight through nothing.

You’re hesitating. You’ve always been 

a goddamn coward. My God,

what would your parents say

if they knew about your curiosity?

How she’s laughing

like a trumpet & smearing blood

-red lipstick all over your pillow. 

How she’s yanking you down 

the forbidden

forest of language, where there are 

no laws, no windows,

no Gods, only kissing 

letters & long, open fields 

of paper. You enter her

hazel world. You are flooded

with possibility. She howls with laughter 

& becomes the wind.

You take your pen

& follow her direction, reveling 

in the quiet sorcery

of a literary rebellion.