Emily Rose Cole

SPELL FOR THE END OF THE MS FLARE

Always the same, return & return, like riptide,
like nightmare. No—like the witch’s warning:
what you cast will return to you three times three,
a reminder that magic begets magic begets
consequences—breakfast’s black mug of coffee
reincarnates itself as a bladder spasm, an afternoon
of self-selected house arrest. Last night’s extra hour
awake resurfaces as the glimmer of molasses in the brain’s
gas tank. Dead engine. Each relapse makes of me an object  

at rest. It’s so easy to imagine this as punishment—cause
& effect. Present action equals future damage. Little wonder
that the adjective & verb forms of degenerate are spelled
the same way: I am degenerate, so I degenerate. Goddess,

in place of such unuseful language, grant me a new word
for disrepair. Bar from my lips all apologies. Blessed be.

 

back to contents


prev
next