Christine McGuire No More Magic Swollen and sallow in your blue bathrobe, Bacardi breath poorly camouflaged behind licorice mints, you gaze an empty fishing line into your morning coffee. At it already, not even 10 a.m. I watch you watch nothing, my knuckles grating against my ribs. I am a blackout, loitering near the breakfast table, the same blackout who tucked you back into bed last night after coaxing you from your darkened window, the empty bottle of rum like a stillborn infant in your arms. My voice hurls itself against you, wishing itself a fist— If I had a magic want to transform myself into one of your golden fifths would you clutch me to your breast, caress me, breathe tender syllables into me? For the last time, I watch the words, like swatted flies, spin to the floor at your feet. Winner of Gertrude’s $25 Editors’ Choice Award