The Death of Magic. | I-84, Biggs. by Sandra Hosking

There are no more magicians
Only narcissists and statisticians
The probability of love is nil
The possibility of hate is sure

The cabinet gathers cobwebs
The rabbit goes unfed
And the lady is unsawed
If calculations are correct
All mysteries are solved

Who will add the lizard’s leg
And eye of newt to the pot?
There is no witch to lift the ladle now
No algorithm can craft the charm
To invoke disillusioned gods

I-84, Biggs.
Along the Columbia, there is always a wind
With arms so strong, they try to pull you in
But those of us who drive this route
Know how to hold the wheel
So when she buffets the car broadside
We are ready and we thrust through.

I had a firm grip until you and your eyes
Caught me sideways and my heart
Blew open, ventricles leaking everywhere
My abdomen filling up with blood,
As I slammed into the water.

Sandra Hosking is a Pushcart-nominated poet, playwright, and photographer in the Pacific Northwest. Her plays, poetry, and photography have appeared in Joey, Red Ogre Review, 3 Elements Review, West Texas Review, The Uncommon Grackle, Cirque Literary Journal, Edify Fiction and the book Along Southern Roads. Hosking holds M.F.A's in theatre and creative writing.