I saw a woman talking to the dead,
performing séances in bus stop queues.
She told me all my troubles lay ahead:
that every fund in black would soon be red,
and every win would soon become a lose.
I saw a woman talking to the dead.
Her twisting hand alighted on my head,
her palm pressed hard enough to leave a bruise.
She told me all my troubles lay ahead
that every ray of hope would shift to dread,
all hospitality would be abused.
I saw a woman talking to the dead.
I did not wish to follow where she led;
her bleak catastrophising was a ruse.
She told me all my troubles lay ahead.
The tarot cards, decisive in their spread:
she loved to be the bearer of bad news.
I saw a woman talking to the dead;
she told me all my troubles lay ahead.
LM
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| Image via unsplash.com |
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