Superstition

Two silhouettes through
The windowpane dance
The thirteen step, heel
To toe.

Milk and salt, inauspicious
Whiteness, lie spilt atop
The tabletop, the lesser
Of a wishbone, drowning
In the white.

Pitch black Mitsy, ‘neath the staircase
Kneads the oriental rug: her
Claws popping like static
On a radio.

You say you will wait with me
The seven years it will take
For this curse to subside.
Each shard in your hand,
a year, you croon,
Eyeing the reflections of
Your eyes’ reflections,
Slicing into the pulpit
Of the trashcan.

In my own shredded hand,
an umbrella blossoms,
Shaking like a palindrome, its
Endless beginnings ending and
Beginning again...

A single fracture underfoot
Touches each of our toes
Across the length of hallway.

A tempest politely raps
At the door. You tell me
With a crooked grin
You’ll float face down, and
I, with my face skyward
if I don't help clean up
this mess.