all my tarot readings are ending in hope:
self-performed to mundanity, as if brushing my teeth
or blowing out the night’s candle so as not to burn down the house
where do I go, what do I beg for, when will I have survived
hope comes in the form of The Star, number 17, telling me
YOU ARE READY TO MOVE FORWARD
reading my mind WHERE DO YOU GO FROM HERE?
and comforting me ANYWHERE AT ALL I try my best
not to nudge my fate out of formation
do I have hope, or do I need it, or will I need it, and when—
is this something I possess, or a thing to search for, and where
—some people trust the universe but others are wary
and I feel as far from you as you do from me
all my conversations lead to the same full stops
so I lay out these cards, searching for a change
in myself and in the world, to wring something different out of both
twisting a wet flannel until it drips over a porcelain bath, until
there’s no need to manipulate an answer WHERE DO YOU GO FROM HERE?
to arc up, just-to-make-sure WHERE DO I GO FROM HERE?
because the answer ANYWHERE AT ALL leaves me questionless
and for tonight I’m too scared of the dark to ask another