You always loved your Tarot Cards, So by the summer moonlight we would light your incense As we sat Indian-style on a field And you would smile your crooked smile And shuffle your deck. In four piles you would tell me my past, My future, my present desires, and my fears- While I feigned sincere attention But on the inside rolled my eyes, Amused by the seriousness beaming From the furrows in your brow.
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"Where do people go when they die, mommy?" Her hazel eyes looked up in earnest Mom was busy looking for ripe fruit I smelled my grandfathers stale breath. His tuna fish lip corners moved in the grasshopper hum of my childhood. I looked back at the little girl, Dwarfed by her mother and rows of apples, oranges and plums Which glowed with a luminosity nature never intended I didn't need to wait to hear what mommy might say When I saw death, it was thin purple skin and the caustic scent of antiseptics It was the sharp prick of loss in my virgin belly A box of apricots fell from my cart, Sending their velvet bodies an arms length under wooden display cases.
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Your unmistaken footsteps played a cadenced tune in my ear Softened by my sealed window, yet to be open It stayed unlocked, through light and dark, As I waited for your fingers to appear at the frame, For the upper half of your body to appear L
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