On Words like Black and Cat
Superstition starts at home. Or sometimes in restaurants,
like when that stranger in the booth spilled salt and threw
the crystals over his shoulder, a mineral shower that stormed
my aunt’s lap. And now in my family, you don’t throw anything
while — salt, rice, ivory, teeth, volleyballs — unless you want to end
up at the closed-down church of Elvis shaking your vanilla-wrapped
hips and singing I do, I do, I do. I used to count steps until my throat
found the margin for error between black and dark,
and then I said nothing in that gray space where the light posts
live. There is a dust cloud named Cat that I keep in the pocket
of my rain coat. We’ve gone through the A names and B names
and hopefully we will never get to Dust Cloud Daniel.
You can’t rub it for good lust because it will crumble
to birdseed and root itself in the tips of your fingers.
My hands blossom too early sometimes, an accidental
bouquet of bloody blooms. My aunt’s husband urges me
to peel a potato and stick the eyes on my thumbs. Dresses
must reach the edges of my knees, sugar gets licked from
corner tables. In every restaurant, I sit behind men
who cut their meat with clumsy knives.
~ Palm Reading
Image of black cat taken with iphone while grilling.
Words written while blanketed on couch.
Time Taken six minutes plus coffee.
Brain on the promises of rewards if I get my work done.