My body is a casino
full of odds, calculations, grand
schemes. I am the dealer,
the table, the players, and this
our favorite game. We call it
Baby Black Jack. Tricked
past our prime, we’re not too old
to keep gambling. Quick, bring me
another cup of oblivion—I’ve
lost so much and I could
lose it all again. Or maybe,
this time we’ll really
hit it big. I want to talk
with the street walkers downtown
about desperation, trash my cheap
and lurid room, the one with the peppy
circus theme. Hung over now,
I don dark shades, prepare to spin
the frosty wheel that is my heart.
Down syndrome, miscarriage, trisomy
13, or just plain nothing—the dice grow
strangely heavy in my hands. Watch
me blow then throw them down as if
I were too cool for this, as if
I already knew the score, as if
there were some guarantee.
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Heather Davis holds an M.A. in creative writing from Syracuse University. Her book of poems, The Lost Tribe of Us, won the 2007 Main Street Rag Poetry Book Award. She is the mother of a fabulous five year old, has experienced miscarriage, and is currently undergoing IVF treatments. You can check out Heather’s blog at http://inredlight.blogspot.com/.