the conjure | by Donna Spruijt-Metz

the first joint was in
Marilyn’s garage – we smoked
I felt nothing

then I felt everything
as if the car had exploded
and well it could have

but at fourteen
who thinks about that
I could see tendrils

linking me
to these cruel girls
daisy chains made of light

I had no context for
visions but they
would come and go at will

for years – mostly they were gone
and unwelcome
until I began

to long for them – train
for the clear sight
the danger

of coming close
piercing a membrane
between here

and elsewhere – once
years later
driving down Sunset

I held out my arms
I could feel
the buildings on either side

of the road
gently brushing
across my knuckles



Donna Spruijt-Metz is a poet, translator, Professor of Psychology and Preventive Medicine, and founding director of the University of Southern California Center for Mobile Health. Her first career was as a professional flutist. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in venues such as OR, Vinyl, The Rumpus, and Poetry Northwest. She still can’t decide what she wants to be when she grows up. She can be found on Twitter @DSMPoet for poetry and @metzlab for science. 

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