My Psychic
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by James Kimbrell has a giant hand diagrammed in front of her place on West Tennessee. It towers above a kudzu hill as if to offer a cosmic How！ as in Hello！ from a long way off， as in how she already knows the sundry screwed up ways a day can go days before I park my wreck on the hill again beside her white Mercedes. O little slice of Lebanon！ O cedar scented cards fanned like feathers of a Byzantine peacock！ Tell me again how I might have been a fine lawyer， that I'll raise four kids in Tallahassee， how I married-it's true-on my lunch break-Yez she took you to lunch okay a zeven year lunch ha ha！ Incense. Mini-shrine. A wagon train of chihuahuas snoozing by her slippers. You have anxious about a furniture… I do. But lately I've grown cold， unconsoled by her extrasensory view. I think no need to speak-across the black tabletop， I don't want to know if I'll find a bright city， a room by the river， a love I will recognize by her dragonfly tattoo. O narrative of ether！ O non-refundable life facts！ say that what happens may not matter， or that it matters as any story does when two fresh lovers embrace the old pact （her bra on the chair， his socks in the kitchen） that says their love is level， unfabled， new. Level with me， tell me why the dogs on the floor， little moon fed hounds of Delphi， seem so over it， so done with the fleas of destiny. Maybe that's the right attitude， no need to ask why I'm here on a perfectly blue Friday， content with what the thin air， what the dust motes in the light say near the high window. I should've learned that music long ago O soundless number！ O jukebox of being that the dogs dream to！ No faux crystal ball， no tea leaves or terrace in the nether reaches of my palm will make her answers less like hocus pocus in a purchased dark. It's time to pay， to drive away from telepathic altitudes， to say adieu to why love ends. How How a heart opens again. Why anything is true. |
