Prompt: An interaction.
“No,” she says, “Nothing specific,
just whatever comes.” I offer the standard,
“OK, let’s look at different aspects of your life
over the next twelve months and go from there.”
She draws an extra card, thinks it’s accident
but I know better and leave it in the mix.
Queen of Swords, a woman on her own –
and, I tell her, “cutting through the crap”.
The other cards offer new beginnings.
Money will be fine, and there’s a strong hint
of a happy new love coming.
“Any more questions?” She says no.
I try my crystal ball, holding her hand
(because I’m more feeler than seer). Her dead
grandma and brother-in-law come through.
She identifies them from my description.
Yet it’s all inconclusive. I say so; she agrees.
“You’re putting up a wall,” I tell her,
“I know you don’t mean to, but
there’s a wariness covering hurt."
Suddenly she can’t stop the tears.
She tells me about the man she’s lost.
“I thought God might have thrown me a bone.
I deserve that; I’ve given so much.”
She feels defeated. She explains why.
Our time runs out that she paid me for
but I still sit holding her hand.
“I haven’t got any answer to that,”
I say as she argues her case for despair.
And I haven’t. Her logic is excellent.
She talks, I listen. She cries, we laugh.
I succeed in giving her a few tools.
And somewhere something shifts.
(Of course I’m beaming love
all the time from my wide open heart.)
We talk on until the market closes,
could have continued for hours.
I hug her goodbye (I never do that).
She smiles brilliantly. I yell after her:
“Don’t ask for a bone, demand a feast!”
Submitted 14 March 2014 for Poets United's Midweek Motif: Presience/Foresight.
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