Six of Swords
So, I walk into birdsong
after three days of pulling cups
to weigh emotion against
intellect: regretful transition
in the forecast, no other blue
like it. But isn’t this balance?
I’ve dived from springboards
before, into cocky shows
of flexibility, little splash.
Slapped my toes, turned
and looked for entry—
gone only until my chest
caves. This is my take-away-
my-power-lock-me-in-a-booby-
trapped-room-to-slay-a-vampire
episode. Once I access the full
potential of my mental capacity
(whatever that means), I’ll be
able to levitate and look down
on the things or people I’ve left.
Ten of Cups
So, all’s not well.
Kept from the beach
we grocery shop.
We “vacuum”
and “cook.”
I give myself
a good look
in the mirror.
Who cares about
James Van Der Beek?
See, the whole world
goes around me
in there. I tend
to my hair that’s not
James Van
Der Beek enough.
Getting old is noticing
new spots,
bumps, your bones
changing shape.
Sorry, my bones.
Yours are golden, I bet.
Let’s meet at the beach.
I’m getting a haircut near
there on Thursday.
The only way to sit
will be to face away
from the sunset, but who
cares? Some dick
will be swinging, no doubt.
Get me a sandwich
as if James Van Der Beek
asked. Egg salad.
The grocery store
we can’t escape
serves tacos. Ask
Tara, she met us
there with Jesse
the other day
for an impromptu lunch.
We grocery shopped,
too, and their salmon
was pretty
expensive, so we grocery
shopped a cheaper
piece of meat to grill.
What’s crazy is that after
a year we’re sick
of our bodies coming
first. An entire platter
of brioche French toast
skipped over, like earlier
when a LOST
CHICKEN sign caught
James Van Der Beek’s
eye while out for a run
around the block.
He’s so cute!
I mean, one man’s prison
is another’s rehabilitation,
right? I mean, Ken is someone
we actually know.
Four of Cups
So, the first time someone called me
cavalier I ran with it, saying there’s “nothing
I can do,” and was like: yawn. For real,
though, I couldn’t really “do” anything
and I was sick of people shooting their shit
all over the bathroom stalls. The lower
road felt higher. My own burnt roof
of a mouth. Blah in the ashes. People
on HGTV build tiny homes in their “paradise,”
and I’m like: how do they finance that? People
should talk more about how they afford things.
I buy so much weed. I buy sparkling water
and hate how Caren calls it fizzy. Pail or bucket?
How about soda pop? But today, against a tree
and then the sidewalk because the tree didn’t work,
I smashed the fuck out of my earbuds for dying
in one ear. For the weekend. For matinees.
The Empress
So, now that I’m here
I’m not quite sure
how I’m supposed
to stand. To hold
my hands up or
if it’s ok to let limp
my wrists, tea time
fingers. I’ve tried
writing forever
about how boys
called me girl
growing up, and how
instead of comfort
I got instructions
to attack next time.
I’ve tried writing
about the anonymous
sex I had a knack
for, my uncle Mark (gay,
dead from AIDS.
My mom never coming
out for me to her co-workers)
in the back of my head,
Erik over my shoulder.
I want still
to be fertile, to bring
that out in someone
close or not close.
Recently, I called Jane
a piece of shit, and thought
fuck her kids. Enough pretending
we’re closer than we really are.
