that psychic in new orleans
didn’t see covid coming, or cancer, or love, quiet, gentle,
sliding under the lockdown wire.
the food stains on her sweatshirt pointed to late with the rent.
it was after katrina and that smell, all those ghost houses, spraypainted X codes;
nothing augured well. i offered to pay,
handed you a twenty. what do you want to know? she asked, and you asked if you would have a child.
$20 in her pocket made her generous as the universe. the psychic said yes.