Broomstick, the witch is dead. That’s
what you said. Small
dingo in my indigo coffee, I’ve followed you
as if from above
every single day of your life
paddling to the other side of my teacup,
crawling over the rim
and now you’re walking away.
I lied; I said I was brave. I said I lied.
rubbing flint and steel for sparks
fevers leap at but do not always seize
is one reason
you might tip, free of
into free fall
fires burning low in gray pantheons, their
incandescence cropped to
are perfect companions for long voyages. I
stuck my head out the window
as the train pulled
away from you
running along the platform and
see you at Christmas
study hard at school.
Five years after and I still remember
the termite mound that braced itself to face the anteater’s
claws and lacerations. The
dinosaurs buried beneath the rubble of your asteroid. Your
hands on my body
clobbering diamonds out of rock.
Francis-Xavier Anopuechi is a professional dreamer from Dartmouth, Nova Scotia, and a lover of dogs, horses and long autumns. He is still learning how to use his wings after all these years.