seven years from a broken mirror
i'm preoccupied with the superstitions of changing one thing to change everything: the doubling back on your path after a black cat, the saying goodbye on a bridge that makes the farewell final. tying a knot in a handkerchief to change your luck. crushing eggshells to keep a secret. turning your coat inside out after a funeral, so that ghosts don't chase after you.
superstitions to warn, superstitions to prevent, superstitions to cheat bad luck and death.
i'm imagining decades and decades ago, a time and place for these things to come from: a clumsy girl knocks over a saltshaker, doesn't know what to do, scatters a little everywhere; maybe many small spills, small mistakes, will be more overlooked than a large one. a shepherd sleeps under a red sky, his flock all lays down. a man stops himself from walking under a ladder; something fell recently, something killed his wife. all of them do these things because there is not much else. here is some bad luck, here is death. what else can you do in the face of that.
how long does it take, how many people will it take, until one single ritual becomes a superstition? until all these things i do begin to be believed in by people beyond me. it's these small actions that are left to me, when my life is so full of uncertainty. when will stepping over cracks in the sidewalk finally mean i'm not thinking about you anymore? i'll only use scissors in my right hand, i'll never sing when it's raining. i'll turn the pages of books with two fingers only. i'll gather the debris from your haircuts, toss them to the birds to make their nests with. i'll ask them to keep me in your dreams. i'll ask them to be kinder when they sing.
more often than not i am deceived by one act and its simplicity. i keep making the wrong things powerful, i keep making the wrong things weak. i'll write your name backwards in cursive, slowly repeating and repeating, to change the way you think of me.
superstitions to warn, superstitions to prevent, superstitions to cheat bad luck and death.
i'm imagining decades and decades ago, a time and place for these things to come from: a clumsy girl knocks over a saltshaker, doesn't know what to do, scatters a little everywhere; maybe many small spills, small mistakes, will be more overlooked than a large one. a shepherd sleeps under a red sky, his flock all lays down. a man stops himself from walking under a ladder; something fell recently, something killed his wife. all of them do these things because there is not much else. here is some bad luck, here is death. what else can you do in the face of that.
how long does it take, how many people will it take, until one single ritual becomes a superstition? until all these things i do begin to be believed in by people beyond me. it's these small actions that are left to me, when my life is so full of uncertainty. when will stepping over cracks in the sidewalk finally mean i'm not thinking about you anymore? i'll only use scissors in my right hand, i'll never sing when it's raining. i'll turn the pages of books with two fingers only. i'll gather the debris from your haircuts, toss them to the birds to make their nests with. i'll ask them to keep me in your dreams. i'll ask them to be kinder when they sing.
more often than not i am deceived by one act and its simplicity. i keep making the wrong things powerful, i keep making the wrong things weak. i'll write your name backwards in cursive, slowly repeating and repeating, to change the way you think of me.