Her hands are rough from the Santa Ana winds.
She spills Tarot cards out of her sack
onto the tiled table.
The café is a cave with anonymous
writing on the wall, a fortune-teller’s friend.
Why do I always see dandelions?
She gives me the Tower card, says
dandelions are my mother’s kisses
falling on me, dressing me in memory.

03/20/2007

Posted on 03/20/2007
Copyright © 2026 Lisa Marie Brodsky