As a child

I searched high

and low for the

right kind of magic

to heal my mother’s pain

never truly understanding

how heavy the chains were

nor how the forgers names

etched in every link

belonged to Legion

claiming souls

as if every birth stillborn

burned at a crossroads

I didn’t know how deep

the river of shame ran

tarpooling toxic depths

to bind bones

in a phantom pinch

and vicegrip

she, modeling freeze,

couldn’t move,

and I followed suit,

a couple of psychic amputees

who became fluent in silence

as a second language,

but I just couldn’t give up,

raised on the stuff of superheros

and sorcerers

I would find the right kind of magic

to heal my mother’s pain

to give her leaden coat

of twilight

something soft

and lovely to set upon

a new day would be hers

and mine

if I could just find the right words

the right spell

the right something

that would make me the hero

who slept so very near to me

every night

in my bed

in my dreams

the hero I could be

burning in my gut

if only if only

and so the search went on

high and low

for years and years

until parts of me shut off

and down

or fled far far

within

in the way that only

bound captives

digging tunnels

can

it took years

and years to tunnel back up

to find myself

with the right kind of magic

the right kind of words

love, grace, dignity

others too

forming a set of keys

on a brass ring

that I carry around

in poems

to unlock the secrets

to a mother and son’s

shared bond

forged in the pale fires

of twilight.