by Deborah-Zenha Adams

Invocation
after Edward Bulwer-Lytton

  	Calliope, we beg your blessing for speakers and scops. 
It’s a hazardous path for those dreamers and fools,
	for wizards of words, for scribblers of sagas who
waste their years in the service of metaphor.
	That’s no kind of life for 
a sensitive spirit, but who else can hear
	the siren muse whisper? Who else will bear the
dark-blooded wounds of truth and abuse, of clarity and rage,
	yet still put stock in the power of dewdrops
and kittens’ paws? Who but a soft-headed rhymer
	would gather the clouds and give them away? The
stormy love affair between writer and ecstasy
	rages and contracts through the ravenous
night, teasing bards with a vague promise of ephemeral dawn, 
	and sure madness to follow. They’ll still strip their souls for
the chance to spin just one more verse, to warn of buzz-saws 
	and ball turrets, to claim another glimpse of
rain on a red wheelbarrow or the sound of a frog and a pond.
	They are the sacrifice that saves us all. No one ever
fell from grace or gained in faith by any means other
	than the magic of notions conjured by poets.

	Amen, a’ho, blessed be, make it so.
 

Raven Speaks
after Edgar Allan Poe

I’m a harbinger, true, but that’s not my 
only skill. I can summon your soul,
bend it left or right, drain and draw it from 
the blood until the truth of you runs out. 
Here’s what you know but don’t believe: that 
your end is nearer than you fear and your shadow 
is holier than flesh. My favor’s worth at 
least as much as a preacher’s throaty lies
meant to drown the din of whispers floating 
in your skull. My prophecy is dead-on 
accurate, rapping and knocking on the 
door of your denial, casting doubt on the floor 
of your graven doctrine. Once you brush all 
the rumors and lies aside, what’s left be-
comes a spew of frantic pleas. Prayers lifted 
to Heaven and begging for mercy are never 
answered; grace is the wind and nothing more.

Reflection

When the mirror
shows your face
how can I know
which of us
is me?

A Twinkle in the Eye of the Universe

Fierce magic bears its own
cathedral full of all 
the faith and fear 
required to breed a legend.

No need of holy fervor
or prim and pious
saints spewing prayers
and pleas for grace.

Fierce magic dances
in the street
asks no permissions
grants no boons

dangles no promises 
of comfort dispensed 
through flayed skin 
or brazen knees.

Fierce magic is and was
and forever shall be 
a thought a breath
a wisp of shredded truth.

Useless, the visitation
that heralds awakening
the wafer melting in a mouth 
hot with log-jammed sin.

Fierce magic rides 
in like the cavalry,
takes no prisoners,
tramples doubt to dust.

Sacrifice? Blood is
worthless, always was.
Flesh feeds worms
perhaps but strangles spirit.

Fierce magic grows from the root
thrives in marrow
eats its way out 
then consumes the world.

Deborah-Zenha Adams is an award-winning author of novels, short fiction, CNF, and poetry.  Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Orchards Poetry Journal, One, Sheila-na-gig, Roanoke Review, and other journals. You’re invited to visit her website to read more of her work. www.Deborah-Adams.com