“Bad Luck” by CL Bledsoe

It’s hard not to envision seams,
when the rain slides the same
way each time, the wind bends

around blankness not even cats
notice. The eye fixes on pattern,
and finding none, forces it.

People kill each other to decide
whether to name it or bow
in shame. Which cloud’s heart

did I neglect? Or was it my cells
in a previous incarnation who
never called the sun back after

a lovely night of drinks? To say
there’s no hand on the back
of my neck would be comforting

if it weren’t for the chafe
of the palm, the labored breath
I hear just behind my ear.

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