Three of Clubs, Reversed

They say you don’t have to pick,
but you do, really. Mom or Dad,
Dad or Mom. All that glitter
where a cozy glow used to be.
A three-legged stool, broken,
and the broken leg is me.

Three of Clubs

It is a quiet moment,
you and me looking away
and back again. The chill air,
the warm eyes, currents curling
into small spirals, like waves,
like a storm to hold in hand,
a calm like the storm’s dark eye
settles over you and I,
whenever we become us.