Nine of Pentacles Reversed,

Ten of Wands Reversed


The Four of Wands

I call my mother today, to get some sympathy for the unease in my belly
Her voice glistens in my ear, and I smile
I work myself into swallowing whatever she offers, I need to throw away whatever doesn’t serve me, yes, I know—but I also need to pick up whatever does
This cross is heavy, and I wouldn’t refuse an extra pair of hands 
Defeated in 95 degrees in October 
I am waiting for Fall, 
for wind, 
for a leaf to fall at my feet, instead
I paint my toes 
because I’m still wearing sandals while I grocery shop for bread and Epsom salts
I am in need of company, 
of a celebration for not being a coward
My mother reminds me that life is hard
That it’s not for the weak
She says even though her knees are replaced 
and her breasts drape her like a scarf
she is a long night
she is a long day
write yourself a love poem, she says
hangs up 
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