"Magic To Be Found"

for Edward “I only really feel alive when I’m on the poem,” he tells me, ”the rest of the time I’m waiting to write.” I think about how words take over me, seduce me until I am a writhing puddle on the floor, people walking passed me indifferent to my pain. “I groan and hold my head, can feel them between my lungs,” he says. And I picture him sitting there tortured, with anguish dripping from his face, onto his chest, hand clutching the place where the words claw their way out. “The pen can’t move fast enough to take away the knife,” I tell him through wires and light, wondering if the blood on my blade is his. Aleathia Drehmer 2007 Published by LitUp Magazine 4/08