Alchemy

poem in Schoolyard Series

A wooden door away from 
my first day of alchemy,
and there’s only torn pocket 
where there should be keys. 

Monocled and unsteady, the coat
reaches into itself now wielding
a stench and a keyring:

that must be the potions master.
He doesn’t talk, but brews
dragon’s breath in goblets and 
draughts of basilisk venom.

Tells me stories
about the bottoms of bottles 
written on liquid scrolls 
marked with black labels.

Spends all night on and off elixirs,
illegible scrawls and hypotheseses.
Melting into the same goo in
his arteries. I heard he doesn’t even 
write down his formulas.

I knocked only to remember 
I unlocked the door already. 

¹art by Pragna Gaddamedi (@prgs.jpeg)

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Poetry Tip of the Day!

No deep insights today. Just wanted to raise a little awareness about the foundation that the subscription fees go towards on this Substack:

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