e. v. noechel

Psychic Hotline Tanka
The phone call eats
4-in-the-morning fears,
but cannot swallow whole,
vomits molded wax and fingerprints
that smear a deck of cards.

She talks in watery words
that gather like tearstains
on cotton. They disappear faster
than they happen,
a quicksilver slide.

Cards without context mean very little

or so I lie

dead among clubs and spades,

spit out a laugh like broken teeth.

Hang up. Click.
From Vault