I’ve been reading tarot cards these past few nights.
Questioned all manner of pentacle and magician
what might turn over the hunger along your palms.
I’m a cancer, you see, ruled by the moon
with all her melodrama. Rather than discuss the issue of
your hand against my thigh, I’d ask the stars to murmur
why you said to follow inside that night.
But it’s not so complicated, no need to wait for the skin
to peel from our bones so I might toss them and read
their meanings. Our flesh holds enough to place reason
to rolling your thumb over my nipple.
The body is a fortune teller. And I’m told the
present is where we belong—while we’re on
the the subject of belongings, I might ask what you’d
call these knots you’ve left all over my person.
We’ve been tangled for a while and it’s about time
we sorted through these red strings that crisscross
haphazardly between hand, mouth, and
body. What I mean to say is,
I hope you’ll dance with me again and let it stand
for something greater than the distance of
two collections of circumstance swaying under
Christian J. Buckley is a graduate of the University of Connecticut with a bachelor’s degree in English with a concentration in creative writing. His work has previously appeared in The Minnesota Review, Bridge, Notre Dame Review, and Long River Review.