In which a love poem disguises itself as a book by JK Rowling


That black cloak needs a wash. Or at least a belt.

It’s not designed to be a bathrobe,

and that magic body isn’t so magic anymore.


I threw away your red-striped sweater.

Twice. And still it surfaces like an old

brown-haired, horse-toothed girlfriend

to wrap its arms around you and hold you tight.


Your hairline has receded so far that people

barely notice the scar anymore. It’s a one-way arrow

for hair loss, in case it loses its sense of direction.

Your bifocals are thick and square.

The lenses make your eyes a little watery.

Or maybe that’s the eight shots of spell potions

and the six communal meals of remember whens.


Listen, Harry.

Hagar is dead. The albino twins are dead.

The man with the beard and the scoliosis is dead.

The pictures have been sealed in the museum

wings where nobody goes.

The beasts that growled and prowled have been silenced

by the bordom of eternity and modern conveniences.

You think an owl still hoots in the belfry

but that’s just a recording. I set it up years ago.


I know your wand droops a little and Latin’s gone right out of your head.

But say Quiddich to me, darling. Wave your stick in my direction

and chase me ’round the yard. I might even let you catch me.

There’s no more magic than this.


NOTES: Didn’t use the prompt. Enjoyed yesterday’s title so much I thought I’d reuse it, sort of.

Read today’s prompt by Christopher Luna (as well as the inspiration beyond poem-a-day) over at Not Without Poetry. My goal is to write a poem each day in less than 20 minutes, and without additional revision beyond the writing experience.