When the world ended,

we scavenged the things we could and vowed
to become witches together. A childhood

necessity. I searched my blackened cupboard 
for the flowers we’d dried, petals bleached

with age and ash.

You’d lost your crystal ball but gathered up
all the bones nearby.

I helped you find them, little white shards,
so burnt they’d crumble to the touch

until you were left with a dozen pieces.
The resilient parts.

Now, you watch the bones clatter, pay attention
to the forms they make.

One day, I hope the world will hold up its hands,
and in its palms, beating like a frightened bird,

show you its bleeding heart.

But I don’t bother with the bones anymore.

I roam the ash, find a good spot, and toss the seeds
that will shape it all anew.

In a few years
the world will still be a wasteland, but we’ll
watch that wasteland bloom.

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Header photograph and artwork by Jordan Keller-Wilson