Dumb Supper


        a divination game in the American south.


Dogs walking backward is a sign.

To summon old love, back your way
into a room–he’ll follow.
Turn back the hour hand to raise a haunt.

Confound bad luck by circling the house, counterclockwise.
Backward is magic.

To foresee the man you’ll someday wed,
make a supper.
Wash dishes first. Set spoons for affection,

a serrated edge for spark.
Dark meat in the cake, molasses
over tenderloin, chilled coffee,

break eggs beneath the bowl
and preserve the spell - keep quiet.
Reverse to the table with an empty plate

shiny enough to ‘scry for a spouse.
Watch for his face to rise
through the ceramic glaze.

If he doesn't show, unlock the door.
Wait for a shadow at the keyhole,
a song in the chimney.

Backing up the stairs,
you should already be undone
so you can button your dress for bed.

Backward is magic.
Maybe eager hands will hinder
you from closing your open blouse.

Maybe not.
Love is backward–you hope for something.
Even something perverse.



Austin International Poetry Festival Anthology, 2009