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For a Wanderer by Megan Arkenberg

This is a binding spell, the best I know.
Cold iron rusts, and red strings fray with damp
and worrying, but this will find you out:
will whisper in your ear in motel rooms with walls
the color of wine stains,
will prickle the back of your neck in gas stations
where the coffee smells like thunderstorms, thick
and electric, and loosing lottery tickets litter
the parking lot like dead leaves.
It will fill the space in the front seat of your car
as you drive a streak of golden dust down lonely freeways.
This is a spell you’ve heard in a thousand times and places,
rolling your tee-shirts into your suitcase,
combing the night’s anxieties from your hair,
stepping onto the patio, begging a need for air
and room to think,
but the magic is always the same, always bitter.
Stay.
It is the cruelest spell I know.