Magic Wand

by krstaten

Once,
I found a twig
embedded in my skull.
I pulled
and pulled and
pulled
until the finger
of a tree,
slender,
dagger-
like, emerged
bloody
and coated in
forgotten
things.
I washed it
in the river,
called it
Magic Wand.
This
is how we name
our tragedies.
Not “trauma.”
Not a thing
that screams
and claws,
but a quiet
thing,
deeper
than we want
to know,
growing
upwards
like a vine,
forced
through all our
existence,
leaving space
where we try to pull
it out.
Magic Wand.
This spectacle
of impalement,
this hidden
weapon,
this thing new
and ancient
that is made
only to change.
It is only
a twig.
It lies
on the coffee table,
coated in
unforgotten
mystery,
harmless
but for the empty
space.

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