I don’t read tarot any more
or enumerate names,
but there is safety in archetypes
predicting the obvious
and blaming a planetary dance
for the outcome.
What we are is more real
than a construct of cards fanned flat
on my grandmother’s scarf can tell.
This us requires more than guessing,
a substance fired into the house we grow,
slow in a row of nows, a mortar of yes,
and any future that needs reading
is solid, not scribed on these palms
dry from gardening and strong soap,
but etched in the curve of my mouth,
suggested in the corners of your eyes
when you smile. We are past blueprinting
forever and build it, brick by brick
and stone solid.