Because it was the only recourse,

I too believed: not magic,
but the will of the mind yoked
to the merest prayer or wish.

In my heart, too many saints
before which votives were lit.
When my child languished in her bed

not wanting to live, with my own hands
I tore the bark from certain trees
and boiled them into tinctures

for her bath. In dreams, cruel oracles
spun wildly around the hearth, desperate
to guess our names. I climbed to the roof,

bonfire of wild fragments. I thrust
the hot iron of myself in the maw of night,
not caring anymore. Not backing down.

In response to Via Negativa: Sleeping on it.