Queen of Wands

I have no faith in the tarot beyond that of its beauty, which is both inherent and artificial. And I like the idea of it, the mysticism. But it is mostly luck of the draw, combined with the poetry of the reader. It's randomness assigned a most-likely meaning.

A long time ago, I had an astonishing reading. It wasn't one of those you've-been-hurt-in-love-before kinds of things, a line that's safe to say for most people, since chances are good the querent, or questioner, has been hurt before. No, this was specific and alerted me to some severe consequences.

In the poem, the Queen of Wands does not represent the narrator or the querent; instead, the reader channels her to ask the tough questions. Back then, I answered them in the affirmative.

In readings, the Queen of Wands asks you to think and feel as she does. For example: Do you feel attractive? Do you believe in yourself? Are you full of energy? Can you shake off the blues? Are you gung ho about life?

I'm being asked those questions again. I'm not sure how to answer. (Perhaps the raging hormones will help, and I'll deck the bitch.)


Queen of Wands

She will let a querent touch the deck to shuffle,
cut, and pull cards for the Celtic cross.
(But do not touch the velvet pouch.)
She winces as you spread them in a smear
as if your brutal touch will bruise them
or your earthliness will taint the tarot.
Eleven cards. Face down . Arranged.
The deck is swiftly swept away.

You have never asked this question before.
You can’t even say it out loud.

But she will tell you anyway who you are,
who covers you, who crosses you.
She will reveal your crown, divine your future.
And then she will go, leaving you with a plan,
a few dollars change for a drink at the bar.
That night you will dream of gypsy poker,
of swords and pentacles, broken hearts.
That night you will sleep in fits and starts.

And when you wake it will still be true.
And you will still be who you are.


Previously published in High Horse.