The collar of a washed and washed,
charcoal black rock and roll tee
is torn out, exposing her shoulders
and back, all covered by
a tattooed line drawing of an angel
that looks like amateur calligraphy.
She claims to be skilled enough
to read an aura from five yards
and knows that Rider-Waite is
the best of the standard Tarot decks.
It’s five to one her living room is littered
with lapis lazuli, malachite, rose quartz.
I can’t tell if her hair is natural, but it’s
the color of ebony stain on almond wood.
I can easily imagine it tickling my neck,
a delicate Reiki, as my empty head
buries itself in her lap. Sobbing, “Please
don’t say it. Don’t say she forgives me.”