sometimes things collide by chance and A Conjuring

sometimes things collide by chance

don’t look so longingly at the door we are sweethearts and such up from the bloody gorge black hair frontier I hear your dead heroes howl in the night they wake me from my dreams and drag me to the refrigerator in search of the coldest glass of water your half-breed grit carries me unwavering into the sledge-hammer dawn

we are an intercourse of title and obsession possessed by possession don’t look so longingly at the door

look instead towards the sky somewhere in the air is the scent of roses the scent of roses and driftwood and trees somewhere out there, there is wilderness and we seek only the empty spaces a colonial infatuation we decry the occupation these woods are full of some sort of grit that carries you through into the sledge-hammer dawn

some hundred feet in the air there is no danger and we are sweethearts and such

A Conjuring

Sometimes thoughts appear when there is no place to write (them down). No napkin. Not even a bit of envelope. Not even a piece of mail mistakenly delivered to your house. Not even a phone with 6% charge.

No tablecloth or jar of blackberry jam.

And still we do the work,

somehow.

Reciting the words over and over like an incantation through the dark:

we must be magic.

Cara Lang lives and works in Vancouver, BC. She’d always rather be by the sea. Instagram: @carabwrites

Cover photo by SpaceX on Unsplash