The Maga


by Jennifer Brough

when we meet                                                             within silver hours of night
time drips                                                                       like mercury from a spoon
into droplets that evade grip                                   from our pale fingers

a calm moon                                                                 near waning
hangs above a mountain peak                               waves crash soundlessly
against its jagged face

gowned figures with metal staffs outline a large pyre
voices thick with sleep, teeth chattering            

my aunt beckons from the ribs of the ward

a place where she was only horizontal
standing tall, radiant
her orange hair      a flaming crown
mischievous eyes seek an offering:
in my hand               a fat dark plum                       

                                                             a sliver of jaw bone
                                                                                                                        a flower grown in March

her lips drift to a smile 

the figures pause, moaning ceased,
she walks to the stone circle’s centre
vibrant amid the fire,

the secrets of shared blood hum beneath my skin

wind leaps through the rocks shrouding the gowns, warmth, my aunt 


i am left with          

the scent of a burnt match
and a flicker of madness;
a pile of ash glitters


Jennifer Brough is a writer, editor and avid reader. Outside of these wordy pursuits, she is learning Spanish and dreaming of Mexico. Her poems and short stories have been published in Hark Magazine, Hermenutic Chaos and Eunoia Review, among others. She tweets at @Jennifer_Brough.