Knight of Wands

The first word uttered by the psychic

was my father’s name    then:

The man you’re here to ask about

will never choose you

He says I am the King of Cups    cosplaying

as King of Swords    on the path of transformation 

into King of Pentacles

Kings are encouraging    & violent

The summering Empress lasts 

only as long as wildflowers 

& boredom’s affections    A compulsion 

to create is not so different from an instinct 

for belief—    faith in the survival

of minutes surrendered to a current

unsurvivable    This bowl: 

begat by an impulse of fingers

This hand-less mug

I love the mud of it    the shaving away    sneaking

a piece of myself into strangers’ periphery

solid as the weary siren of memory

I am supposed infinity    the number eight    in wait 

for a Knight to love me    I should take the pottery class

I should cradle my pentacles    lay my swords in the sea

Wherever you are Knight of Wands    spare the horse 

& bridle    skim the coastline for a yellow cardigan 

harboring the barefoot urge to dance

The birds in the window are waiting

to uncage their song in our astonished hands