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by Alorah Welti

The auguries said it would be like this:

My inevitable loneliness beside me,

dream-stricken, knife in-hand.


When the tea leaves said, Honey, you're ovulating,

I laid down among the trees. The moss sighed,

Overmorrow, I declare you Magician.


At that moment, across the forest, 

he crawled out of the ground, out of my longing–

gasping, earth-stained.


I wept and ran to him

and when I knelt beside the spirit made solid, 

I realized my body was not with me. 


The absence was stubborn against prayers–

I remained a translucent apparition, 

as though unreal.


Then he whispered into the darkness, Overmorrow,

and I commanded flesh to create itself– to cup my spirit. 

He watched me materialize.


Reunited and nearly feral– 

He brushed the hair from my face and said,

My love, the tea leaves lied again.


I licked the dirt off his mouth and laughed;

But I watched you materialize.

He said, You remain hidden. I remain away from here.


Look around. This moment hasn't happened yet.

Alorah Welti is a nineteen-year-old Minnesota-born feminist, synesthete, and emerging poet and artist. Her work is forthcoming in Inklette and Allium, A Journal of Poetry & Prose, and has been featured in an anthology by Girl God Books. She is a recipient of the Daniel Manacher Prize for Young Artists by the Sandisfield Arts Center. She lives on stolen Mohican and Wabanaki land, now called Berkshire County, Massachusetts, with her family.

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