I sat in the
tarot parlor, she
watched me from
under her veil,

saloon keep 
poured me a
stiff whiskey on
the house, knew
the faro posse was
hot on my trail,

I laid out the
tarot spread, none
of my cards ever touch
a table top, the purple velvet
an eye-catcher, I laid the Empress
down, soothed her wanton eyes, the one
in her veil,

the minor arcana,
all fifty six in my gun
holster at my thighs, it
shouldn't have been, there
was a child in the saloon, standing
like a cherubim by the spittoon, she cast
her eyes upon me like I was Annie Oakley,

a leap
of barroom
faith or about
to fall off the cliff,
the Fool commanded
attention, the child, she
came over to me, she had
a blue light surrounding her,
friend or foe, she said, "I'm an
indigo,"

she looked
over at the lady
in the veil watching
me, "Is she your mother?"
I asked.

"my mother
gave me to fortune
before she died, that
Eight of Cups I see you're
breaking away from the past,"

the tears in
my eyes carried
dissillusionment
and abandonment,
they'd never see me
at another faro table,
convert me, I wrapped
up the tarot in the purple
velvet and gave them to the
girl child, "a gift of fortune," I said,
the purple went so good with her blue.

Copyright 12/28/2009 Ms. Sage Sweetwater, firebrand lesbian novelist