after Medea
We were such little animals then,
all paws and teeth and eyes.
We made a tree house of our leafy love
and together pulled up the basket.
Each night you burst into flames.
By morning the leaves were black lace,
the floorboards damp with dew, and I
breathed ashes with every dawn.
Through charred branches the sunrise showed me
open fields, trees without scars. Daisies
unafraid to smile.
And yet, years later, you smolder.
My fingers have grown long and nimble;
I know now the secrets of enchantment. Eyeliner.
Backbone. Magic we could not
have imagined. And yet, in
this cool night, in a mass of my own
now-dark hair, the tendrils in my chest
reach skyward, hopeful.
painting by Evelyn de Morgan
