This morning there’s stardust floating on my coffee. An ancient asteroid belt suckling the heat of my black cup, creating a film that projects my memory to when I was older.
In the future, I lived in an old folks home. I had a magic addiction. Anything to do with magic I would beg, buy, steal, or borrow. I would grind it into a fine powder and eat it. Sometimes, if my grinder had been confiscated, I would eat the trick with a knife and fork, a napkin tucked under my chin.
The effects were immediate. I could disappear or levitate, fly like a dove or shimmer like a lake of jewels. It was always delightful until one day I turned into a black hat from which nothing could be pulled out of, not even myself.
I prayed to the light to deliver me from darkness, but after that nothing but rolling silence, then a pulsing red glow.
For a time I seem to be a kind of firework flower. Slowly blooming out and around myself until I’m born again into the light. Wrapped and swaddling, I’m held to my mother’s breast. She’s singing the new old, same old song.