When I Speak of Magic

When I think of magic
I’m immersed in the swamp behind my home
holding pine trees and an old yellow birch
with mysterious scaly vines
that I used to climb on and become a creature other than human.
The woods where I would be running 
away from what mythical beast would 
be so envious and intrigued by my delicate fairy wings and hysterical joy and rosy cheeks,
the mysticism I held in my smile.
––leaping over the creek, the snap of a branch––
And the runner’s high would kick in
and I would smile and then cry out of fear
and I couldn’t feel my heartbeat and it was as if I was dead or dreaming
but then I felt it again and focused on
running jumping leaping dodging skipping
again.

When I think of magic
It is writing poetry on the college-ruled lines
when subtly my head moves to a melody
and then I stop and focus––squint my eyes hoping that will help me hear the tingling in my ear more clearly,
and then I turn back to the page, away from the page
unable to ignore the creeping of the brass
which encases my brain and melts down to my toes.

Magic is
Those thoughts you want to remember but always forget.
The cozy in my own arms.
The ocean.
The sky.
Knowledge.
Fertilization.
Is the dirt behind my fingernails and in the oily cracks in my skin.
It is fresh herbs as hot tea.
Frigid creek water on my bumpy face.
That thing called will that keeps me running at mile 8, 11, 17, 22
It’s the stone on my neck and in my head.
The connection between you and me.
Magic itself is existing and sentient and tender and strong.
I    choose     to protect      magic.