a journal of fantastical poetry


by Lisa M. Bradley

The girl does not levitate,
it's the chair.
Harvested from sacred sycamore
baptized by woodworker's blood
varnished by grandmothers' and
great- great- great's grips,
the chair waited until science
learned to see long, if not deep
before flaunting its truth
during the daguerreotype.
Lifting the girl was a Newtonian accident.
Though the apple of her father's eye,
the girl has no magic
has no ideas, even,
when we argue how or
whether to keep the furniture
Thus we duck, at the mercy
of this inconvenient miracle,
this unfortunately lofty

March 25th, 2015

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