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I.

I used to know all about magic.
Every night my mother folded up the sky,
and I laid beneath it, warm and asleep.
The grass cast spells on feet,
making them sparkly and wet.
Mosquitoes had blood red, itchy magic,
And the earth’s rotation was so magical
it could eat up daylight in a few hours.

Your hands taught me about magic, too.
Your hands had the magic to set things on fire,
sizzling their way up your guitar’s frets
and landing atop my spine.
Inside your fingers was a sleeping potion,
that dripped off my lips
and onto your pillow.

I learned about the magic
inside a Polaroid camera:
the kind that could freeze any moment,
when a finger told the shutter
the magic words.
I was a time-stopping
witch.

II.

Now I know about black magic.
The magic of guns to turn life into death
when a finger tells the trigger
the magic curse.
The magic of God
to turn men into monsters
with a few ancient fallacies.
While some holy old men sat down to write the Bible,
someone else was being murdered.

I learned that money is magic because
it can give you your every secret desire:
to fuck a prostitute
on the top floor of a fancy hotel,
and afterward,
to stand on the balcony watching beggars
swarm.
Then you can feel a gold rush of power,
as you throw down some change
and visualize it as someone else’s shitty fast food dinner.

They call it black magic
because war’s magic, gold’s magic, knives’ magic,
the magic of a hundred thousand angry and hopeless men
dying at the hands of the few and the powerful,
eats away at peace
the way night devours day.