Three of Swords, King of Cups
by Ali Trotta
Edited by Julia Rios
Copyedited by Chelle Parker
July 2019
Sometimes, I put my heart
in a mason jar, cover it with herbs
wrap the glass in lights,
and let it shine
in the dark.
I leave it offerings:
honey, a bit of wine, a circle of salt
to keep it safe, but not pristine —
there’s nothing neat
about what’s sacred,
so I revel in the mess,
the uneven beat,
the way it speaks
without being spoken to.
There were years I buried it,
others where I banished it,
tried to drown it,
resented it for its wideness,
its wildness, the stubborn way
it refused to shatter, but thrived
to bend.
I have given it away, ripe
like fruit, frayed as a stray
wind, a creature of dancing
and daring, a thick mess
of uncompromising clockwork.
Sometimes, it comes back ragged,
worn down or atrophied,
tender from overuse,
howling, but it only needs
to be reminded of its own worth,
encased in glass
and glimmer, reawakened
to its own song —
there is no spell
more powerful than that.