The grieving girl dreams of her dead best friend.
It is J.K Rowling’s fault. Before bed, she was reading
Book 7, the part where Harry walks willingly into death’s open
mouth-expects a cloudless sky, a room of empty glasses
and no one to welcome him. Instead, he greets Dumbledore-
wonders which of them was the death curse cast perfectly.
It is not possible to be both the boy who lived and the
boy facing a funeral procession, conversing with a not ghost
in a not dream and enjoying himself.
And just like that
the dead best friend was sitting on a couch surrounded
by other not ghosts who the girl did not recognize.
The best friend looked exactly like herself. Before
the 28 pills a day. Before the blood cells made her body a nail
that only pierced itself. Death no longer the searing of a cast
iron skillet against open blood wet sores. The best friend’s name
parroted from her lips three times. The name
no longer sounds like carving into a headstone. When the best friend
answered, the year of her absence became a room no one
enters or talks about. The burial site unvisited.
The lupus just one of her jokes we don’t laugh at.
Her best friend's lap became soft altar. The girl knows
something is not right
here, but kneels in prayer anyhow
then wakes up.
Nymphadora Tonks leaves voicemail for Brittany after seeing her leave the bar with her ex love.
Hey.
I had hoped to catch you before you left
yourself in that bar- walked out a replica of his
face. We transfigure, us girls, all potion and sugar cane.
He is not a man worth becoming someone else for.
He has not even become himself. When he says he is
too old, too rough, a fang still dripping
with blood, he does not mean love me harder
but he will let you, if you insist. And you
are. Insistent, I mean. This is how
I knew I would find you here
hair a pink sunset, hoping the glow
would drag his reluctant tongue back
to your name, where it belongs.
This is no way to live, dear.
Call me back when you get this.
It is J.K Rowling’s fault. Before bed, she was reading
Book 7, the part where Harry walks willingly into death’s open
mouth-expects a cloudless sky, a room of empty glasses
and no one to welcome him. Instead, he greets Dumbledore-
wonders which of them was the death curse cast perfectly.
It is not possible to be both the boy who lived and the
boy facing a funeral procession, conversing with a not ghost
in a not dream and enjoying himself.
And just like that
the dead best friend was sitting on a couch surrounded
by other not ghosts who the girl did not recognize.
The best friend looked exactly like herself. Before
the 28 pills a day. Before the blood cells made her body a nail
that only pierced itself. Death no longer the searing of a cast
iron skillet against open blood wet sores. The best friend’s name
parroted from her lips three times. The name
no longer sounds like carving into a headstone. When the best friend
answered, the year of her absence became a room no one
enters or talks about. The burial site unvisited.
The lupus just one of her jokes we don’t laugh at.
Her best friend's lap became soft altar. The girl knows
something is not right
here, but kneels in prayer anyhow
then wakes up.
Nymphadora Tonks leaves voicemail for Brittany after seeing her leave the bar with her ex love.
Hey.
I had hoped to catch you before you left
yourself in that bar- walked out a replica of his
face. We transfigure, us girls, all potion and sugar cane.
He is not a man worth becoming someone else for.
He has not even become himself. When he says he is
too old, too rough, a fang still dripping
with blood, he does not mean love me harder
but he will let you, if you insist. And you
are. Insistent, I mean. This is how
I knew I would find you here
hair a pink sunset, hoping the glow
would drag his reluctant tongue back
to your name, where it belongs.
This is no way to live, dear.
Call me back when you get this.
Brittany Rogers is trying to survive being a mother/high school teacher/poet/Hufflepuff with her glitter and inner church girl intact. She is an editor for Wusgood.black, a literary magazine which creates a safe space for urban writers. She has work published in Mothers Always Write Journal, undr_scr review, and Eunoia Review.