Tarot Card 0
The Fool tries to throw his voice
his efforts seem less than
adequate—his mouth moves,
shapes nouns, forms verbs.
gravity seems reluctant
to follow his commands.
the absence of smoke leaves
him silent, he moves to light
a cigarette.
he strikes the match,
sees words
alive in sulphur.
taking a drag, he listens
for a voice,
untethered.
Tarot Card I
The Magician holds his breath
He can remember when he held forever
remembers when penance felt
close to real pain—
he wanted to be a martyr
but was reluctant
to pay the price.
He thinks of her now
as his chest tightens
wants to reach out
stroke her hair
get lost in the space
between
written words.
He remembers talk
of crucifixion, nails
blood and the sun
turning black.
He can hear cracks
of thunder and the hiss
of air escaping his lungs
but he can’t remember
the sound of her voice.
Tarot Card II
The High Priestess attends a Masked Ball
she believes rain dulls the edge of unhappiness and in a world
out of practice with silence, she wants to forget about words
and float beyond form or thought. she wants to sharpen
the oval face of sound, imagines herself as confessor,
the quiet muse, a journal. promising to leave nothing
to chance, she’ll hold secrets speechless against her breast.
she will be the keeper of lock and key while night suffocates
the last light under a blanket of stars. she believes it’s possible
to pretend herself into solitude, possible to cover small
indiscretions with a laugh and murmur thrown in the right
direction. she wants to fall in love with no consequences,
teach the moon to recite her name--a prayer for the dying.
Tarot Card III
The Empress becomes an Agnostic
she imagines blackbirds flying in a straight line
over flat land, wonders how love feels when it’s raw
before the sharp edge of regret cuts down the sun.
night drifts to dream and she sews a scarecrow
using rags from the past. she’ll hide her sins
and wrap his straw arms
around herself to keep warm. she never believed
in second chances and even now is not willing
to trade memories for repentance.
one day, when loneliness is gone and forgotten
she’ll hear a voice catch in the wind and listen
for the distant sound of beating wings.
Tarot Card IV
The Emperor contemplates abdication
Imagine a forest without trees, flat land with no end
in sight, tired scarecrows stuffed with remnants
of the past are the sole residents.
Straw men have nothing to look forward to
they hold loneliness like a talisman, their thin
voices lost between rows of corn.
Soon, he will never have to worry about emerald
cities or enchanted woods. He will seek warmth
in the comfort of what might have been,
sleep with no chance of dreams. He will wake up
unafraid of the empty bed, unafraid of the black
birds that stare him in the eye.
Tarot Card V
The Hierophant decides to take a mistress
Gently disintegrate me, leave me blind
because I no longer need my sight
no longer need the warmth and safety
of the familiar.
I will fuse the impossible with the unknown,
unburden myself from fear and wait
for you to explain the tides that pull me
closer to fire. There will be a time
ripe for forgiveness but today is raw
and truth too far away to grasp.
Tarot Card VI
The Lovers have second thoughts
I’ve never seen a wounded bird
in flight but have heard the sound
of longing as it walks out the door.
there are no words to describe the moon
as it ripens on the horizon.
after you go I will dye my hair
again and again until its original color
is forgotten
every moment feels caged and quiet,
the sting of penance becomes dull.
magnolias remind me of our first time,
a dry summer and intentions that crumbled
to dust at sunset.
I could leave without a trace,
not even a whisper to mark my path.
Tarot Card VII
The Chariot-a 1967 Shelby GT 500-
Act I
(fade to street level, pan to fifth floor)
There’s this girl on First Avenue-- a real Georgia peach if ever you could paint
one. She screams out the hotel window to a not-so-young man wearing a baseball
-Mets not Yankees-shirt. Hey Paco, you get it? The not-so-old boyman ignores her,
strolls to a blue Ford Mustang -a shelbyforreal’tang- muscles his way
into the driver’s seat, hangs his arm out the window like a rope and pops away
from the curb. The girl is left by the window twisting her hair into a perfect knot.
Act II
(cut to a deserted street; late evening)
Meanwhile, the manboy called Paco whose real name is Wendell –Pete- Jackson
pretends to know all the words to that new-last year’s album- Dandy Warhols
song, the one about Miami and early signs of heroin withdrawal.
He seems interested in the way the streetlights look damp in all this heat
but what he really wants is a way to get into Rochelle’s panties –Angel
bodywear-without being as obvious to her as it will surely look to anyone else.
Act III
(soundtrack plays- The Pixies; intro from Bone Machine)
He drives around the block, recites the best lines from The Big Sleep –
Bogart’s -and fumbles for his lighter. At least five minutes go by -one, two
at most- At the same time Rochelle -her real name is Juliana- pours herself
into a margarita. She can almost see the moon fold back on itself and wishes
the rain could wash away regret. This ride is pistol whipped and loaded,
there’s a crack and bang--his last chance to chisel a smile into the sunset.
(fade to black; wait 30 seconds, roll credits)
Tarot Card VIII
Strength is a prime number
You tell me everything
I need to know about my sins--
how they will be stones
that weigh down my pockets
how they are the missing page
in an attempt to write a story.
Tomorrow and the tomorrow
after is time enough to believe
in ghosts,
today we will be unafraid
with nothing left to break
but promises.
Tarot Card IX
The Hermit recalls his last day before taking vows
I recognize the sound
of ice as it hits
the bottom
of a glass
hear the whiskey
in her voice
tell me it’s time
to move in
the frame.
My eyes sting from smoke
mixed with absolution
and I want to believe
there will be no more
dealing from the bottom
of the deck
but I can’t stop
dreaming
in circles.
Alex Stolis lives in Minneapolis; he has had poems published in numerous journals. Two full length collections Pop. 1280, and John Berryman Died Here were released by Cyberwit and available on Amazon. His work has previously appeared or is forthcoming in Piker’s Press, Jasper's Folly Poetry Journal, One Art Poetry, Black Moon Magazine, and Star 82 Review. His chapbook, Postcards from the Knife-Thrower's Wife is forthcoming from Louisiana Literature Press in 2024. He has been nominated multiple times for the Pushcart Prize.