A Secret Book Of Dark Writings

Her face, like her voice, was carefully expressionless.
She said, “You would write books, if you could. And you believe
a witch keeps a journal of secret spells and knowledge,
a secret book of dark writings, a Book of Shadows.”

He took care with his voice and face to match her distance.
And he found distance, too, for what he said. He said, “No.”

As if he had told her something like a joke, she laughed.
As if she herself were telling something like a joke,
she said, “No, you would not write books if you could, or no,
you do not believe a witch keeps a Book of Shadows?”

He said, “A witch and an alchemist go out for beer.
The alchemist drinks one glass, then turns over the glass.
The witch drinks a glass, then orders up another beer.
Is the witch trying to out-drink the alchemist, or
is the witch thirsty and really enjoying the beer?”

Her eyes went wide and she didn’t hide her expression.
She laughed and her laughter was like the sound of distance,
all distance, everywhere, and then the thought of distance,
disappearing around them, leaving them, only them,
two together, as close as can be. And nowhere else.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .



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