Lost to the comfort of burnt sage
and bergamot, I do not remember
entering or paying so I arrive
to myself already sat in silks.
The woman I thought a wood carving,
bows with patience, hands shaking,
branches in the breeze. My questions
about how I got here evaporate
and merge, forgotten, into smoke.
Without looking down at her deck,
she draws the five of pentacles
the tower, the ten of swords.
The curved lines on her face
grow deeper. I realise I have
forgotten how to breathe.
Remembering our arrangement,
she takes my hand in hers,
dry as kindling, soft as moss.
She lies to me: everything will
work out fine, nothing will change
and I am simply a flickering light,
luminescent in the gathering night.
Prompt for today was “Write an overheard poem” from Amy Kay Poetry on Instagram. The title comes from something I overheard years ago and have been waiting to use ever since. I didn’t expect it to turn out like this.