Tell me you’ve bolted the door,
the one inside your heart,
tell me, you’ve abandoned
the ghost you once loved,
let love you, haunted
and haunting, until your mouth
was all cobweb and ash,
broken spells unraveling
before you could fix them,
runes wrecked
before they gathered full power—
            tell me, you’ve put up the wards
against the nightmare, let the villain out
out of your bones, blessed the memories
for the power they hold,
but released them—
            butterflies of smoke
and secret, beautiful in their disappearing.

           
Tell me it’s finally done—
            that the past has been committed
to the page, a record
            not a reckoning, a fable
we can tell ourselves when it gets too dark,
so we remember that
            dragons can be beaten,
that poison sometimes is a kiss of sleep,
that goodness never lays down its sword,
            and that somewhere,
                        there’s a blade
that could fix all this—
            you just have to forge it,
            become it,
            wield yourself.

           
The truth is we make our own miracles,
            either by cleaving or conjuring,
and sometimes, the wait is long
and full of darkness,
            but there is strength
in the bargaining between our heart
            and what we see,
            what might be—
and that is why we try,
            and failing that,
                        try again.

© 2024 Ali Trotta