The Tower

Alexa Stevens
Here, in the cards, is the flow of  
Our conversation, and the ebb of promise,
Shuffled like badly practised footwork. We pick
From the turmoil, and begin.

In my tarot deck, the Fool’s gold falls
 Into the maw of a waiting shark. Why is it hungry?  
All of God’s creatures are
 Starving, and we are no exception.  
We are all shrieks and nothing more.  
We are the sound of an airplane door sealing shut  
Against the world and thinking itself  
Invincible in flight. Think again.  
The door opens and we tumble  
Into a sky that will not catch us.  
Our burdens are too heavy. Our hearts are too light.  
In the days of sun gods, we  
Weighed our hearts against a feather but
Now we weigh our hearts in each other’s hands
(In-between and up against our  
Guilt). We have not learned  
How not to squeeze. We are still falling.  
All of God’s creatures strike the ground, and we are
No exception. The earth has a patient,  
Open mouth. Hungry creature.  
The Sun watches our  Swallowing, and there’s no pity,  
Except from the watchful stars,
 Still worshipped and still Hidden by the flimsy folds  
Of an indelicately arranged dawn.