Our Lady of Possibilities

Silver, silk, shimmering, subtle.
Lady Hatsuhana under

the waterfall. The faithful wife
of Sir Geraint. Disobedience

as a true sign of loyalty.
Her penance and pity and pain.

How arguments may reconcile
a wink and a nod and a glare.

The provenance of tradition
is of no great interest to fools.

The lottery, stoning, the dice.
Rocks rattle hand to hand like sand,

like a knotted Slinky, or like
a broken snake, lurching in grass.

I don’t know which I regret more —
kisses I never gave or got,

or when I dashed headlong into
miseries of my own making.

Hands hungry for hair twitch for touch,
soothe a worry-stone, talismans.

Uhura’s in my coat pocket.
Seshat sashays, tosses her hair,

drags her shoulders back, and stands tall.
Consider the many options.

Could this be a love poem? Maybe.
One of the possibilities.

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