the magician.

all tarot cards are about the past.

a hermit, i emerged from concrete. my burning lantern branded into the sky. it shone like a pentacle somersaulting above a field of fire lilies. finding its place in heaven. i sang fatigued down the newly moonlit road home. clouds, classic reveries, shrouded me as though i fell asleep on the way.

in dreams, i belong on cliffs. hair fluttering in the mouth of rabid winds. dignity, a damascus sword gifted by the fates to my heart. it curled up in my palm. i stabbed the cliff in its eye. as it closed, my blood splattered face reckoned with how i’d be judged for this. how the wound will manifest in reality. how my shame is coated onto the layers of steel for eternity.

i am not a religious man, but routine and ritual have saved me. i made my forearms crystal columns and transformed my bedroom into a sanctuary summer bugs take shelter in from stubborn heat. i learned how to wield my tongue as a weapon and hide it as a virtue. i burned incense to banish whoever roused me, coaxed my languished soul out of its body, at witching hours throughout the glorious night. this is all evidence of the gods i am not looking for; the gods i shouted to from behind bars; the almighty comfort lacking in hellish october. i prayed relentlessly for truth. rolled my knees on ice until they became only frigid skin and bone. the cold was not as upending as the perceived silence. 

when grief is a tree with contorted branches and leaves that drink succulent stars, life is a child at its base. enchanted by the enormity of a single thing. i read cards, unholy books, and listen to forbidden music while i roll leaves in paper. i bake brownies with a green goddess that has always loved me for more than my grave dysfunction. she’s embraced me in her faded reality. our secret is that i am cheating. i fall asleep whispering three surahs to myself, even when she’s in me, unless the full moon is accompanied by red pomegranate seeds waiting to be sucked dry by my hungry, pomegranate eyes. when grief was a tree, i bent over in its shadow. tending to the soil beneath with a wand.

the human experience, a billion burdens heavy, can be shuffled swiftly like waves empowered by wind. childhood, the dandelion-yellow foolish beginning. living on the cliff of night and day. seeing neither the sun or moon, just a dream. adulthood, the dark violet cycle of birth and death. rebirth and unrelenting death. drowning in zamzam water; kicking your faith in the face as you slip out of a cocoon. it has all come to this. curiosity trips on seconds around the clock. all tarot cards are about the past. under all mysticism is a simple lover asking for too much. speaking honestly to the magician who vanished into clouds, shrouded like they do tricks in their sleep.