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I used to masquerade

as Nadine Hurley

to keep the mystic about

me in the midst of

powerful fools.

I don’t know if they know

my real name but I am

a poet and married now;

I found attainment in

the white lodge and black,

came out on earth

17 again and wise with

middle age.

I’m not Nadine, but I know

her much better now.

I’m not a magician,

but I know how to be one.

I’m not a god, but I know

how to love like one.



I have always known her

weapons to be gentle,

mighty and world-ending;

well like the cradle

eats death for breakfast,

washes with tears and

sifts through wicked bones.

Her children listen to

the moon,

they hear how evil vibrates

and they are angry.

They feel how reincarnation

smiles through the water,

and they are still.



Sending you messages telepathically

is the only reason I have for writing.

Signs point to everything except the

thing itself, and I have sworn against it.

I’ll see it in my sleep then and when

there is a little silence in the night air.

It’s never past midnight in the imagination.

It’s always sunny in my dreams.

Yet there are mists from long ago

that creep around the reverie, a

flavor following me upstairs and down,

something permanent and mild.

It’s not unlike me to weigh the chances.

It’s not unlike me to stay the course.


Lindsay Hargrave is a poet, editor at Graphic Violence, and a copywriter for Temple University. Proceeds from their debut chapbook "ROT" (2022) benefit ARC Southeast. The follow-up, "Computer Baby," is available now from Bottlecap Press. Read more at or follow @notporkroll on Twitter.

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