Dying old woman, can you see
what the cards on your table hold
for my life, for my death, for me?
Tears from a goddess may fold
into a dove or into a spider web
that speaks the truth of yourself
as your mind and body ebbed
away, far away, from the shelf
that holds the memories of you.
Do your cards speak of death?
The cards can see through
my mask and the useless breath
that holds a mirror to my lies
and a tearing blade to my skin,
through my dedicated guises,
through my myths, growing thin.
Speak of death or speak of life,
the cards you hold lack the power
to save me, to break the knife
in this moment I need, in this hour.