Sore Knuckles

abalone shell
the color of a peacock feather
held her cards fanned out face down
room smelled of cinnamon-fried apples

oak table
mason jar of whiskey
teen daughter poured one for herself too
she was old enough to light the moon

flour sack
full of coins
daughter divided them up on the table
she didn't peek at your hand but she knew the value

mercantile closed
knock at your door
daughter poured her one too
seated her at the table in front of the third pile of coins

premonition dealt
church ghosts held spades
horsehair whisk felt its charge
washboard left sore knuckles holding the cards

Copyright Ms. Sage Sweetwater, Celebrity firebrand lesbian novelist