I was a wizard once— a poet, I mean

I was a wizard once—

a poet, I mean.

By mortar and pestle 

I could concoct vigor and ache.

I could make you 

want a raspberry,

though you’d not even 

thought of raspberries

for a week.

I could twizzle my wand

and touch the ball of your nose—

turn you into a child

so you might run through the rain

free, naked, and laughing.

I always thought 

when this day came, 

I would heal you by casting 

fireworks across the blue dark

or tickle your hot forehead with my nails,

cooing over you 

while the bombs fell round.

I was confident I would 

distract you, love—

sing to you, 

make myself a shelter over you,

breathe life from these wet lungs

through your cool lips.

But it’s not how I imagined.

Pots and potions sit round me still.

I am quiet and confused.

Not brave. Not heroic.

Only human.

I am with you here.

Small with you.

Yet, without my fire, 

ten million stars 

prick against the night.

Without my voice,

spring peepers 

make a choir.

I cannot reach you.

Yet, without my touch,

the winds of God move

upon your brow.