"Magic Bridges"

If you know my writing style, you'll know that I don't typically gravitate toward poetry, but I've also found it very healing this past year as I complete cancer treatment during a pandemic. This poem was partially inspired by a student from my Creative Writing class who was comparing magical realism to historical fiction one day. 

I wonder about the magic of our own histories,

How we brave pain with a deep breath and

dash of imagination.

Neuropathy tingles in my fingers like a

spell for release

This toxic IV is a paradox of healing:

         a magic potion extending my life

After the doctors cut me open,

          did they stich me with gemstones and rose petals?

A machine whispers a vignette of fire,

                you kill a bit of yourself to kill this disease.

Can I wrest every last cancer trope out of Hollywood

and trample them beneath my boots?

Can we cover our every scar beneath ink,

like murals over broken bridges?  

I've walked miles in a soul grown old too soon,

but my soles will continue to tread this ground. 

We each tell our own story,

    measuring out how much history, 

        how much magic.