I Welcome You

 

I look around the room:
I see this notebook,
I see that pen,
I see the plant I forgot to water again.
I check once more to see if there is a god in any of this,
or out there in anything,
and I am glad. I am relieved.
There is no man or father dining on my adulation,
or punishing me for lack of it.
There will be no shotgun wedding
or water or oil to pretend magic over my head,
as though it cannot otherwise be found upon this earth.
It's found.
I find it.
I breathe.
This pen is a tool.
My notebook is a comfort.
Magic lives here,
spirit is here.
It lives even in the drying plant I'll forget again,
because we are an animal together —
you, this universe, and I at once —
and I welcome you,
a mother, a father,
a sibling child who has been through the same family war.