Women of Cards

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In a monthly cycle, 
women gather to play cards, 
to not talk of the children 
they have or don’t. 

Red is the color of life, 
they say, and black 
trumps it 
for its purposes. 

I shuffle the well-worn cards, 
deal to each at the table 
her own hand, 
each randomly. 

Ellen, the divorcee, rages 
against the death of her 10-year-old son.
He died in her ex’s trailer, 
temporary gas tanks leaked, 

intruded while the son showered, 
suffocated his pink lungs. 
Because of this, she risks 
the least in protecting her three remaining. 

Shelley, mother to none, 
whose uterus has never thickened 
with rich minerals, reaches 40 
and failed blessings, 

wonders why she cannot be a woman
until her house 
is full. She discards in turn 
the queen of spades.

Rachel, abused by her father, discovers
adulthood at age 31, the blood
of her victimizer forever 
flowing in her children. 

And I, in youth, 
hold my flushed hand of hearts;
impatient for my turn 
to play.