A woman I have never met posts a picture with her fingers dipped in gold dust. In a vintage shop, I see a very tiny porcelain bunny. I cannot take it home but I name her Sai.
The sun rises burning. Somewhere in Indiana, a hedgehog gets a haircut, and I watch it live.
My boyfriend wears a pinky ring, slim and silver, and I spin it when we talk. He never stops me, not in this, not when I say there is something I want to do with my life. Even if it is a really silly something.
My gnome home is a really silly something. I sit outside on a hot sidewalk, and my street bustles by. A child walks past me. Seeing the gnome home, he shouts in excitement.
“Magic, I knew there was magic!”
Magic.
I know there is magic.
I never stop looking for it. I pretend I can make it. My fingers tap across a keyboard and it crackles like sorcery.
The sun sets rusted.
On stage, a woman stands up and plays a trumpet– slow and low, like she’s calling the stars down to light this alleyway. In some other city, they would find a way to park a car here, and I say grace, quick and easy, and the night lights echo it.
Later the curry is a deep satisfying red. It snaps on the tongue like it’s casting a spell. It tastes like I know where home is.
I close my eyes and my body holies.
I rest blessed.
.
.
(I cried a lot today, so I wanted to write about joy.)
rarasaur 