POETRY

My Psychic Reading

The Medium shook and swayed. I did not. If the dead can see right through us, maybe we are the ghosts.

I asked the dead for answers The apple-cheeked psychic shook and hummed Sitting opposite me at a table strewn with ancient crystals

why am I wasting my money on this?

the crystals evidence only that a valuable cave somewhere has been marauded mutilated for profit so fat westerners can increase the purity of their vibrations

Even mother earth can say it #MeToo

The secrets of her dank, sweet caves sold to the lowest bidder turned into tawdry baubles

So that I can hold a sparkling rock while I ask the dead

Do you love me? Did you ever love me? Is anyone there? Do I matter? Did I ever?

Why am I here?

But the dead don’t answer Or maybe I can’t hear them Over the sound of guilty stones in my heart on the table

I asked the dead for answers I can’t remember why All I can do is sit here in silence holding a rock

and cry

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