throwing the bones

they ask if I can read
their palms or see
the colors of their auras
or anything other than
read their cards.
they’re always a little disappointed
when I say that’s all I do.

I understand, you know.
it’s not like I pretend
to be a conduit to the mystical.
I’ll be the first to tell you
that tarot is nothing
but ink on paper,
old pictures of white,
cishet people and a bad
Catholic hangover.

but what I don’t tell anyone
unless they already know it
is the zing of a reading
performed with startling accuracy,
the way you find yourself
in the right place so often
you are skeptical of being skeptical,
the way numbers
follow you in hindsight,
without the comforting blanket
of confirmation bias
to soften the weirdness.

nobody believes in witches
until they think one
might hex them
or help them tell their story.

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2 thoughts on “throwing the bones”

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