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all fifty-four—Mama’s age when a shaky, unlucky hand
tumbled our house of cards.
Some cards hold the only diamonds we’ve owned.
Some days I have seven cards in my hand, others thirty, overwhelmed with possibility.
When I’m desperate, I have at least one left to play.
Today, Mama’s last card is a nursing home.
Sometimes, the cards are out of our hands,
we’re the cards in someone else’s:
tossed, traded, flipped, flopped, turned
like Mama’s body over bedpans, or when I’m on an airplane
or zipline, how I could end up in the river.
All we can do is pray we don’t get discarded.
Years stack, the cards stack too.
We combine our decks and rebuild our house.
We’ve accumulated quite the pile.
I keep it organized, but hands slip, we exhale heavy, cards scatter.
I pick up what I can find, reshuffle.
Something’s missing. Jokers creep into my hands.
I welcome them as much as I want a new deck.
Games become boring, less serious.
I’ve gambled quite enough away, but not everything.
A lifetime’s worth: a short stack of blue chips, all our hearts
remain. |
Amber Weinstock is an emerging writer who holds a BA in English Literature from Binghamton University. After teaching in South Korea and traveling for over a year, she’s back in Brooklyn, NY to pursue art things and fight the urge to float away like a helium balloon again. |
