Cancer seemed to enjoy

sneaking into bed with me
in memory,
sucking the joy out
of my marrow
with a curly straw,
laughing at my silly
notions of control.

And though
every evening
I dance my
witches dance
and cradle your
energy in my bones,
I know
there can be no more
cups of coffee shared,
tight hugs in the morning,
lights along my way
which you lit
with the same match
you awakened
the pipe tobacco
into smoke,
ash to phoenix
to ash again.

What waltzes
through the mind
of the magician?
The serpents
forever twisting
up and down
her spine,
always hissing
and missing the ethers
from which they came,
many moons ago,
before this year of the
batshit crazy
and the crows cackling
in the tree by my bed.

I awake,
and stare out the window,
stare out the window,
calling in the spirits
of the four corners of earth
to commune with
those astral and supernatural
planes of beyond beings,
tea and toast,
tea and toast,
and some light chatter
of alchemy and the
weather.

Author: Megan Coleman

Editor: Renée Picard

Image: Pixabay