TEN OF SWORDS
it means things can’t get any worse
so they might as well get better
but in the card the sky is all black
except for a low, pulsing dawn
like a yellow wound undressing,
but it could be just another sunset
spilling more blood, burying
more blades in my back,
and why is their aim so good
when i miss everything i swing for—
shhh, sulking won’t change anything;
i promised myself i’d never feel
sorry for myself again, but i feel
like i’ve failed you—you always tell me
to change my mind, as if depression
is a brown pear i don’t have to eat
so i almost don’t recognize you
when you say I hate to think of you
there without me,
and you take the sadness by the pommel,
you take what’s out of reach,
you take the pain and you take it away,
one sword at a time.
Rita Feinstein is a graduate of Oregon State University’s MFA program. Her work has appeared in The Cossack Review, Menacing Hedge, Permafrost, and Spry Literary Journal, among other publications. Her favorite things are dragons, all-you-can-eat sushi, and Jim Henson’s Labyrinth.
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