Margin: Exploring Modern Magical Realism


As a young woman, I fell two times
into the charmed realm: satori.   Green,
I hadn't asked for this visitation
fused between my waves.   The first
time, the smell of hay
maneuvered me into another
tongue—no body, mind,
no word.   The second time, melted
in grief, I watched Grandma
bend and fist her tears
over Grandad's body.   Released,
I became netting and shimmered
on this plane.
                                      My occult book reveals that
people move into the held-out chord
by two trails—through an earth grove or a rope
of sympathy.   At night, alone in my room,
fretting, I sense my grandparents
watching me from the couch.   For years now,
they have been deceased.

j o a n   c r o o k s
b l o o m i n g t o n,   i l l i n o i s

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