I don't tarot

I don't tarot

In the busy streets of Bangkok, I walk past the old uncles and aunties who read cards, faces and tell fortunes.

At the Brighton Pier, I walk past the turbaned mechanical figure behind the glass, trapped into foretelling in exchange for a few loose coins.

Online, I once clicked on an intriguing vlog that my friend had freshly posted. She reads tarot cards for each of the zodiac signs daily and the comments show that she is well loved and respected. Kudos to her but

I don't tarot.

I do, apparently, read Madame Esmerelda's predictions.

She jumps from one subject to another. Is this a reading for one person or several, I wonder. Her imagery piques, her statements riveting in their sharpish vagueness and her warnings clear;

I ask, what's a tick-bird and why do they sync with crocodiles?, and immediately immersed myself in the world of the Egyptian Plover bird, the dance they honed over centuries to calm the usually predatory reptile, so they may feed on ticks, leeches and other parasites that are lodged onto the rugged skins of their bemusing consorts or between their awesome conical teeth - jaws of death to all but tick-birds.

Step by step behind you something will be destroyed, Madame asserts, and I nod in understanding. The past is past, which is to say, the past has died and only remain alive in memory, and even then, only because we remember.

Something ancient makes itself known, she says, and I hold back from looking sideways and back to see what that could be, returning to the page in high anticipation of that eventual meet.

The lines remind me that we possess nothing and prepare me for when poetry shifts, but it is the last prediction that make me gasp and forget (for a moment) to exhale...

Oh please, please, says one of me to the other, let it not be so.

But I don't know what I want, I say, I've been too far distanced for possibly too long.

No contact always works. Either they come back or you're forced to bear the consequences. Sometimes, you learn or you heal but there's no guarantee.

As the conflict swells, another piece of me toys with the idea of returning to the latest installation of Chelsea Love Tarot

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I hope you enjoyed this poem. For a reading of Gwen Harwood's "Madame Esmerelda's predictions" go here. I've also included the link to my beautiful friend, Chelsea's, YouTube channel, for you to enjoy if, unlike me, you do tarot. You can find it here.

Much love xo