From My Spell Diary

a blue pen and ragged cap, for the impression of his teeth,
dipped in new sweet wine
a brown switch of goldfish weed, because he pet-names his
plants, bound in white thread
for constancy coins from his cottage couch, thrown three times onto red silk copper constellations a tin Eiffel Tower from his desk, hung with electrical wire
above a live wick one prescription note, shoved down the front of my pants & rubbed to sweet pulp inside my legs the lowest of charms

thumbprint, left, from sticky cover of Maclean’s (hopefully his) cut five times, ridge to centre & boiled for tea (the “Roman cure,” last hope of fading virgins and fatties)

nineteen paperclips, straightened to shivs, silver minnows nine for each shoe
& one to cut with

—R. M. VAUGHAN