my grandmother and i are on the couch.

when i ask about the soft edges in everyone's voice, she tells me,
"it's because these few days are holy."
and i remember my aunt this morning
saying something about how people must meditate
on their savior,
and think about their god.

i look at her now,
at the table with two other people,
their fingers curled in front of them,
their heads bowed,
and words quietly escaping their lips
like prayers they have memorized from the cards in their hands.
there are no saviors to them,
just kings and queens
that lead them into the night.
(but meditation has always been better done late, i guess.)

the dim light hangs above my aunt and her friends like
a numb pain that has settled
in a throat that has been suffocating for centuries
called 'architectural beauty,'
called 'site of sacred things,'
called a photography background for tourists.

the coins bounce across the table
and ring like bells
and my aunt's arms stretch
and rake the thirty silver pieces
into her chest,
thanking luck or fortune
or her god
for a prayer answered,
her friends cursing luck or fortune
or their god
as they gather another set of cards
into their curled fingers.

the words come out in a stream of kings and queens
and numbers.
their mouth spill their heart on the table,
right there - a murmured incantation
of awe
or devotion

or just
silver.

-j.g.