Poet of the Month: Marsha
Madame Maman at the kitchen
table, in turban and curlers,
reading the cards. Clucks and sighs
suggest my stint on earth gets grim.
She won’t say how or why. Am I to be
enticed by diamonds, beaten by clubs,
smothered by hearts, buried by spades?
You’re a goner, she says, but slaps down
fate upon fate, frowning after another
future. She never turns this one up:
that, following suit, I too will
tell stories from a blank deck.
Published in Salamander