6 Ways to Be Lucky

1. SHEAR OFF YOUR HAIR IN THE MIRROR // & leave.

They say it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission,

but under your surname Forgive Me & Please

are homonyms. Your father says you don’t know either.

Your father doesn’t know the miniature-dictionary cradled

between your calluses & seamed jean pocket,

how you leaf through fluke, godsend, landmark like

badly bound scripture. This time, you rearrange your plaits

in the shape of a letter. Leave him to spell out

his apologies.

2. WATCH YOUR KITCHEN TILES PLAY SCRABBLE WITH THEMSELVES // & leave.

Sunlight won’t stop spilling across everything

you touch. Think, delirious, about the unleavened loaves

leaning against the cabinets. That afternoon a puncture

at the center of the scene, your father screaming Quiet

On Set. Come On, Get Up, Back At It;

The cupboards blown wide open, the popcorn

walls blitzed, the fridge door swinging crooked

like a fractured shoulder, you front stage in the

earthquake divot of tiles. The phone rings & you don’t pick up.

3. DIG STERNUM SHAPED DENTS INTO THE DOORFRAMES // & leave.

Rib-climber, boy-eater, get in, you want to be kept

safe. Every storage ransacked and every container found wanting.

Drop to / the ground, Don’t