In the hour between there and back again, 
The mirror groans,
Bemoans a shifted shape, 
The fairest of them all, the knuckled bones

Sliding upon a slender dawn, a pale arm amuletted, 
Rumpled brown,
Hurries on a slow wind winding down 
Before a bumbling sense of yawn.

She cares enough to send the very beast, 
Garroted and beguiled,
A cardboard child of birth 
On barren earth. She always lied.

Probe the wrenching gut, anesthetize the pride of loins. 
In the main rescind the welcome home, 
Out the candled brief, 
Bereft of time.

The rabbit died, symptomatic of a fecund life. 
The throttled joy
With which the tiny boy 
Evaporates, another tasteless ploy.

Newt and toad and bloodstained eyes,
The cauldron churning electric.
Invoke the gods with cattle prods,
Eclectic curses burning.

In the hour between love and not love, 
The mirror frosts its lenses,
Senses a sea change, a neaping tide, 
A final cleansing.

In the minutes between there and back again, 
The mirror cracks.
Johnny’s back, black and burned;
Returned but not the same.