It was the whisper behind your words,
after being scared
shitless
by the description of the eight of cups,
that triggered
the vanishing
of old casts,
dead skin, rotten
leftovers, dragged
for too long. Suddenly,
the cocaine
clown, a once haunting tickler
of the nose,
became a sad, painted man,
unable to even walk
down the street, without stumbling,
in his oversized shoes, unable
to navigate the streets
of Berlin. And,
with a whoosh, tears
in my eyes, relief
in my heart, I knew
the truth,
I buried my mouth
in the side of your neck,
in the drapes
of your red hair,
suddenly able to let go
of fiendish control,
to accept the gifts to come,
to be able to see the fiery daughter
of wands before me, a conduit,
channeling, transcending, conjuring
spirits of the past, from the two
hundred year life
of this Wohnzimmer, beyond
the four of us, without fear, without time,
as red pentacles grew
from the coffee table like red roses
on vines.
