the problem with tarot
& other divination
is simply this–
why shuffle a deck of cards
to get an obscure answer
to the wrong question
when you can simply
frame your lover’s face
in your palms
tilt his chin up
until your eyes meet, ask
& read your answers there
or are you afraid
of such honesty?
***inspired by an invitation for a free “Love” tarot reading in my junk e-mail 🙂
when poetry shouts
& drips from fingertips
when images push into position
frantically
that room of one’s own
becomes any space
with paper & ink
or keyboard & screen
voice flowing
from brain to page
faster than bleeding
written standing up
at a bus stop
words blurred by rain
or scrawled on a napkin
with coffee stain edges
those seconds
of possession & creation
do not need silence
& will not tolerate
interruption
but seeded images
need time to germinate
planted deep in the mind
bud & unfurl in a place
for coaxing slow growth
free of demanding cats
squabbling children
& cartoon voices
where is that closed door
that sacred space
that room
without a door
that only I
can enter
& how
do I find it?
***right now, that room of my own exists only in my living room, between 2:00-4:00 in the morning. Â There MUST be a better way…
clouds swaddle the sky
and hide that streaking
this mind knows to be
mundane comet dust
while the soul yearns
for magic, past logic
to net & jar celestial fireflies
for a moment
flashing codes for wishes
woven between stars
& melting into
that  milky way haze
the boy
who will not climb ladders
or go down slides
taller than his mother
opens his eyes, finally
at the top of the Ferris wheel
says hello, clouds
& points to the crowd
snaking lines for other rides
and shouts hello, ants
giddy with how sometimes
we can be carried
higher than fear, past it
to loop inside adrenalin
sitting in the only shaded spot
away from foot traffic
my daughter
writes boys’ names
on her sneakers
in rainbow ink
while
the avenue
of the flags
sets Miles Davis
in motion
straight up
to loudly snap those flags
in unison
popping August air
already sizzling with oil
& dusted cinnamon
everything here
can be sold battered,
fried & eaten
on a stick
from bacon to butter
& even cheesecake
but
who wants to swallow that
when we can stir
& taste afternoon sunlight
stain-glassing
those flags & fluttering tents
to spun sugar candy floss colors
melting on our tongues
as caricature artists
cartoon the lovers
leaning into each other
on canvas paper
preserving
a more natural
but still forced
sweet
if I could speak words
into being on a small  scale
I would whisper you here
look past the obvious
sometimes that
smooth surface
is a false calm
wrapping a rip
that long
tidal swallow
the initiated
know to float with
because fighting
means tiring
& drowning
do not resist
an element
this hungry
let it carry you
past the pull
save strength
for that long swim back
& for breathing
Susan Daniels Poetry 