My mother was a patch of smudged ink on
his arm, skin yet to close after being lasered

by the dermatologist. What were you thinking?
she had said to him before, and he answered

I love you, and as she touched herself
prodding her comical mouth with a finger

her shadows tenderly seeping into his pores
making her more vivid. Each time I’d see

my father pointing a knife at her, at her
smile wanting to tear it off. And I was his

death eater, quick to sew my mother shut
and burn her before she causes too much

damage. Then father would touch my
face as if he’s now seeing clearly through

the tears that clog his serpent eyes. How
in this chamber of secrets we dance

in a ballroom tiled with his pain. And I
was wearing ice slippers, his frozen tears

leaving a wet trail that clouds this rib vault
where our steps are quiet, where father I am

Yours,

your horcrux.

I miss the feeling of clay under my hands
A spinning wheel, my foot on the pedal.
The rough silver plate always sands
Down the skin on my hand but I don't mind

I can build vessels out of the earth
Pulling cups and bowls up from the ground
In this instant, my hands are worth
A thousand vases glazed in gold

I dip them in thick buckets of color
And place the ceramic uncertainties in the furnace
We both come alive in fire
And emerge even stronger than before

you're my favorite book
pages worn and tear-stained
special moments dog-eared
quotes traced in bright yellow highlighter
notes scribbled in margins
spine torn and aging
cover bent and creased
stains and wrinkles spread throughout
you're my favorite book
I've read you at least one hundred times
I recommend you to my friends over coffee
but only to those who'd appreciate you
only a certain type of mind can appreciate you
understand all your themes and moods
understand the author's ideas and plans
and laugh at all the right moments
you're my favorite book
I carry you in my messenger bag everywhere I go
and I love the way you smell like nostalgia
and that page 46 still has a hot chocolate stain from that one camping trip
where I read you by lantern light under a heavy sleeping bag
and I love the way you feel in my hands
you're my favorite book
but that doesn't mean I don't read others sometimes I'll read another to find it's awful
other times quite fantastic
with battles that make you sweat
and deaths that make you cry
but none of them are you
you're my favorite book
and I suppose you always will be

For you have your mother's eyes, dear child
And my heart sinks lower every time I look
Because you are a reminder of what I've failed to do
A reminder that I was a coward
And when I gathered my courage it was too late
Your mother died knowing I was only bad
She died before ever hearing my goodbye
She died before ever knowing what's in my heart
And that night, she brought all goodness in me to die along
And left my broken heart shattered to pieces, beyond repair

fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself
so maybe that's why i
hide
your identity behind a cloud
of prestigious synonyms and
truthful lies because
i'm scared
of you and
scared for you
and if
i'm not scared then i don't feel
anything
at all (when your fingers are
wrapped around mine
or wrapped around my neck) because
i feel like i'm suffocating, your
skin
used to be on mine but now my
vocal cords have been
snapped, strained, broken,
so maybe your lips
are like electromagnets;
they took away my steel strength
when
you pulled them away;
like tectonic plates evoking
an earthquake in my core, in my mantel,
maybe i am a planet
but you made
me inhabitable;
my atmosphere poisonous,
i am impossible to breathe around yet
you
had the audacity
to sheepishly hold up a second hand
gas mask
and say someone else
will one day finish
project "love"
on a tiny planet
who's name
begins with m
and ends with e

The comic convention
has cardboard cutouts of
all of the main characters of
Harry Potter.

Harry,
Ron,
Hermione,
etc.
All motionless in a river of people,
glossy but worn down,
bathed in cold white halogen.

And one by one,
the cosplayers—
the Harrys
Rons
Hermiones,
etc.

Have their pictures taken
with the cutouts,
one cardboard cutout cut out
and replaced with a real human being.

Being human, we
crave companionship,
fear solitude,
crave solitude,
fear companionship.

We try to avoid becoming cardboard
cutouts of ourselves, but sometimes
a retreat into inanimacy
is what the animus needs.

The cosplayers continue to shuffle forward in line
each waiting to pose for a selfie.  Each
politely smiling at the living Harry Potter characters around them,

but not striking up a conversation.

I still hope
That even my tiny hands might shape something
Great
But I sit in the mire
Playing with mud
Deluded by such grandeur that I am
A worthy creator
Shake my fists at God
“I am better!”
“I can do just as good of a job as You!”
All the while sinking deeper in the filth
I surround myself with
Hysteric laughter
“I can be God, I can be God.”
But my tiny hands can never make
Never make something of worth
Lasting through the ages
Laughter fades as I bow my head
Murmuring,
“I am God…”
Sink lower into the mire
Neck deep
“I am God…”
A pile of sloppy clay in front of me
“I am God…”
But what can a *** tell of its Potter?
What can a painting say of its Painter?
Can they say that they outshine the Hands that shaped them?
Can they say they are the Hands?
Nay, they only reflect the glory and the beauty of the Creator.
So help me, O God.
Because my pride is dragging me down
I am but a beautiful ***
Molded by an even more beautiful Creator
Still being molded
My tiny hands can do nothing
On their own
But even tiny hands can do great things
With big, strong hands to guide them.

Rest in peace to all the brave gryffindors
The courageous ones with hearts that soar
Rest in peace to all the smart ravenclaws
You left this generation in intelligent awe
Rest in peace to all the clever slytherin
without you, many of us wouldn't grin
Rest in peace to all the kind hufflepuff
I know our journey was tough

Avada kedavra to the other sort
Crucio on voldermort
imperious on the non deluxe
Destroy all of the horcrux

Shortlived were the cohorts
That tried to defeat hogwarts

we thank you