Magic

I wish for magic:
Sparks shooting out the end of a wand
to cause small inconveniences for those who have wronged me
or poof up a bouquet of roses for a forgotten anniversary
or to summon my cell phone from across the room so I don’t have to get up.

I also wish for spells that heal;
mending a broken bone in an instant;
sucking out cancer to hover in a black mass and then disappear;
calming my insides – our insides – so waking up in the morning
isn’t just another disappointment.

I wish for magic for wounded children
and the tired woman who works the streets, hating it,
and for the grandmothers and grandfathers who linger, linger, waiting
for permission to go. I wish for magic that could stop death
and magic that could bring life.

But today I can’t think about that. Today magic can’t help me.
My days are still long and lonely; my friends are in pain.
Babies are dying and people are starving but they are so far away, so far away.
My selfish little life consumes me. So, instead,
I wish for magic to summon the TV remote,
so I don’t have to get up.