by Frances Hatfield
I tried not
to know
when I pulled
the Hanged Man
out of the deck,
but later,
when you said
the words that
splayed me open
like a fish
and laid me out—
not unkindly—
on the salty
block,
each fragile arch
of rib bereft
of succouring
dark,
I knew then
I was going down
again, that all
the other times
gave me no
immunity
but only
tutorials
in surrender,
a snake fetish
in my pocket,
a Chinese fortune that says
When one dies,
Another resurrects
reminders
that I am
not only this,
that even now
I am making
my way to you
from very far away,
a mendicant
drawn by news
of a feast.
(from Parabola Magazine)
