The Magician on the Solar Plexus
Arge in barge: you tread the planking,
following friends to the teller.
Her sign's on the lop, and the afternoon
is a spin, or a jape.
In the pit of your stomach, a tussle
of anticipation. You lean
awkwardly towards the determined
flit of her fingers.
She tricks the pack into order,
ferrets the cards out, rests
their flat-faced images straight down
on a shady blue cloth.
She tenders you Tarot, turns the day
on its milled edge. Her voice
is warm air through rafters,
rises as smoke.
Something bandies her imagination,
has you paddling your thoughts
up a broken stream. She looks
into space, impressed.
A horseshoe of cards: she lifts them
carefully as if your destiny
were wishbone-brittle. The third
of them dabbles her thoughts.
The Magician, she insists is
there on your solar plexus:
the broad brims of her image
shadow your eyelids.
Her words larrup the air, crack
sparks in your darkened heart:
there are risks, risks. She
gambles your life.
Now she is white noise, static.
Confidence surges your thighs
and pummels your abdomen softly:
you are the Magician.
Your glance skims the river,
arcing its surfaces, a hurtle
like a dancing pebble seeking
Tongue honeyed with the sweet
secrets crowding your palate,
eyes are crackling, rehearsing
the arts of departure.
The Magician on the solar plexus!
Now you sceptre the dusk,
scarlet with initiative,
certain of purpose.
Your past is slung on its rusted
tenterhooks, it is luggage
lost with a vengeance. You storm
the siege of the future.