lay your cards down on the table
the other one picks theirs up and holds it
up against their face the back of the cards
shining and shimmering in the dim candlelight
you know what they’ll do
they know what you’ll do
the rounded edges of the cards
thank you for your perfect trimming
pricking your fingers trying to
make your way around the points and corners
snipping and snapping the scissors go
one by one cloaking them in softness and warmth
the curtains sway in the sharp wind
the fireplace crackling in the clacking cracks
of the damp and dark walls, leaning
to the freshly opened smells of the decks
as they clatter around as clutter, filling up
your senses, sending you into a slight delirium
they take one of their cards
and let it float back down to the wooden tabletop
landing beside the bouquet of blood roses
a picture of the perfect gift appears
wrapped in all its splendour and glory: a ring of
pure diamond, of pure gold, of pure love
you happily dish out a stack of gilded cards
with no care or concern; you let some flutter to
the ground for the others to pick while they
eye your paper money with delicate hungry
hands hanging around, silently slipping some
into their own deck as you smile
the candle flickers as they play another card,
a portrayal of a house, a quiet place to call home
with children, hundreds, dancing and skipping
and being children, and all you can and want to do
is let the cards stream out of your hand, your
laugh lines creasing your already weathered mirror
the game goes on, no qualms about stopping,
and neither do you, as your wrinkles take over
your face in a sweep, with them mirroring yours,
the wind getting wilder, your hair in a storm,
a stack of chaotic cards in the middle, spiralling
about the room in a frenzy as the candle goes out
and darkness ensues and you reach out for them
in the now growing mess of a restaurant and the
curtains blow past your face windows shattering
and all you can think about is them them them them them and when you finally reach the other side of the table and breathe
no one is there. the table flipped over
like a game long lost and forgotten
and all the cards lying dead and roses pooling on the floor and oh how you want to follow suit;
but this game is too fun and you go on to the next
round, sweeping card edges off your suit.
This is the third poem in the set of 8. Play the game, play it well.
