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
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