This is a poem I wrote after another long night of dreaming. This is a poem written after my tarot card reading on Sunday. The number 3 has always been relevant to me and now I know why. The universe is weird and wonderful. And Love is present and constant now. Everything is a profound joy, finally. I was up today at 6A writing poems. I am bright purple today. I had dreams about topaz and 3’s and magicians everywhere … and the usual house with many stairs, and the usual circus of chaos, the usual prostitute, these 3 recurring like moons.
I get to thinking I wish I hadn’t brashly cut my hair, wanting it back sometimes. There were little thoughts in those strands and my hope is that there is a brunette bird’s nest somewhere. There’s a little museum in my throat and it is white and brushed modern metal. There is a warehouse in my feet and its windows ache at the end of the day.
I wonder what she wanted, that aunt mentioning a topaz ring from the dead. She hasn’t spoken to me in months, but spoke through the tarot. I hope it is a forecast of my ring finger being adorned in layered, stoney love. It is a mystery as important as toes, as a 3-pronged crossroad and November 18th meats on my doorstep.
Anhedonia: The Poetry Life 