Magic / History

There is magic in these fingertips.

I feel it in the night,

The early morning,

I feel it when my sisters

From another life

Call out to me,

They plead,

They yell,

They cry.

I feel it when my hatred

Peaks through the curtains,

Glares into the mirrors

At my back.

I feel it when tears

Stream down his face,

Down my face.

I feel it when I remember the way

I had to press my cheek

Into the sheets

And hold my breath.

I feel it when

My pen meets the paper,

One sigil after another,

And I remember that

There is magic in these fingertips,

In the women before me,

In the life I once lived.

I remember

That there is magic in these fingertips,

But there is history

In these bones.