Sympathetic Magic

My lips slowly stir as I mouth our names.
The plastic pen is my worn wand
doling its inky spell onto the bond
white paper that is coiled into the same

black notebook in which all the dames
in Bio 11 draw the cycle of fern and fronds,
their lips slowly stirring the Latin names.
Their plastic pens are their worn wands.

The plane of my notes is not that tame:
blue lines imprison the preacher's son.
The spell of our names insures he'll be won.
At the back of the room, in this witch's game,
I slowly stir as my lips mouth our names.

A. Popp
1993

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