The Gathering

You find comfort in writing,
a kind of spell work that
releases all the bees in your
brain, shakes away the deep

sea blues, justifies the
stirring tension between
your shoulder blades. Dusk
rolls in as she always does

and you’re still tap-tapping
away having lost yourself in
a small of lightning and a
swollen flower moon, for

there are Godly things afoot.
You hum softly, keen your
ears like a bat moving in
for the kill, a circling lunar

moth for company. You should
sleep soon, she whispers, before
coming to rest on a patch of
lamp light. But you are restless

and unfinished. And as the
wind’s soft growl knocks
at your window, you feel as
invincible as the night itself.