The Magician and the Deck of Cards

The magician’s
deck of cards
was full of insecurities:

The Joker,
a constant wild animal
with an obscene mouth
which I kinda dug
but who refuses to take off his mask
and still wrings his hands
and squeals his sorrow cries
into the dark
when he is alone.

The Queen of spades,
a shade bitch
with eyes
that even pierce
the skies
and pours down
on her fellow
ghosts that walked
in bones,
groaning for approval.

The 4 of hearts
who crashed his car
into a bridge wall
with full force
for he thought
he was a caterpillar
turning into a butterfly.

And the Jack of clubs
who lies while
speaking soft
into your ear
and promises to leave the keys
under the doormat
but throws
a pack of cigarettes
on the porch instead.

I watched the game play out
from the hole in my dollhouse,
with its own share of hauntings,
and winked at the magician
who laughs with a knowing
that the cards
may switch characters
but the queen
is always left like the queen of Macbeth,
shaking blood

from her broken hands.

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