In the kitchen, I refine the alchemy
of avocados, salt and stir them into guacamole,
this conversion a delicious and knowable magic.
Other tricks are difficult to master—
cards that repair themselves when torn in two,
an assistant who disappears into empty space.
I prefer spells within reach—lying prone
as a masseuse resets my muscles and meridians
or sitting on a weathered chair as vapor rises
from the lawn, a spider descending
from a branch to thread a new web.
Some nights, it is as simple as static
on the radio, the hiss of disconnection
and departure, or a kiss hello after a day apart.
This is the kind of magic I know best, accepting
love, returning it. It is this string of years,
this bowl of avocados, mashed with lime
and garlic, just the way you like it.
