Seer
By Jordyn Perazzo
November 15, 2024
November 15, 2024
I have not been home long when you decide you want your future read on a Saturday afternoon. outside, sweltering summer heat. inside, shivering at sixty-five degrees. in the middle of the Texas Roadhouse, our mother’s sister, a preacher’s wife, draws a purple drawstring pouch from her purse at your words. half-empty plates pushed aside, the cards roll off your shaking fingers, a cascade of swords and suits she then arranges in a pyramid and flips over one by one.
outlook hazy, try
again. you may rely on
it. oops. signs point to
your future held in the hands of a tarot hobbyist who pronounces you are likely pregnant, engaged in an affair with a married man, or too consumed by others’ perceptions of you. you deny them all, disappointed, but at least one of the cards approaches some kind of truth, and it is not that you will soon become the mother of one and stepmother of two. still trapped in the prison of a public school, you have unlearned trust in yourself and your place in the world.
a less lackluster
prophecy, I’ll promise you.
ask, and I answer.
the outside heat beckons, so you ask, whatever a poet’s words are worth, whatever might be divined from condensation slick on the table or read in the whorls of the last bit of butter. whatever fate lies in the blood in our veins, yours and mine. despite this indulgence you will not really believe, not even at thirteen, so I bite my tongue on all I have learned, all my faith in the future, yours and mine, and I give you only the truth as I have known it all the days of your life.
whatever future
unfolds, you will never walk
this wide earth alone
outlook hazy, try
again. you may rely on
it. oops. signs point to
your future held in the hands of a tarot hobbyist who pronounces you are likely pregnant, engaged in an affair with a married man, or too consumed by others’ perceptions of you. you deny them all, disappointed, but at least one of the cards approaches some kind of truth, and it is not that you will soon become the mother of one and stepmother of two. still trapped in the prison of a public school, you have unlearned trust in yourself and your place in the world.
a less lackluster
prophecy, I’ll promise you.
ask, and I answer.
the outside heat beckons, so you ask, whatever a poet’s words are worth, whatever might be divined from condensation slick on the table or read in the whorls of the last bit of butter. whatever fate lies in the blood in our veins, yours and mine. despite this indulgence you will not really believe, not even at thirteen, so I bite my tongue on all I have learned, all my faith in the future, yours and mine, and I give you only the truth as I have known it all the days of your life.
whatever future
unfolds, you will never walk
this wide earth alone
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Jordyn Perazzo (she/her) is a writer from southeastern Oklahoma. Her work has previously appeared in the journals Frontier Mosaic, midsummer magazine, and in an anthology from Riot Ghoul. She can be found on Instagram @per.jordyn liking poetry (and probably dogs).
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Author’s Note:
I can’t imagine this poem finding a better fit than under the theme “What I Wish You Knew.” My sister was thirteen at the time of its original composition, just entering that truly tumultuous period of being a teenager. She is sixteen now, still deeply entrenched in all the drama, the pressure, and the heartache of that age, but also all the discovery and growth it affords. I do not believe any prophecy could predict all that she will become. My advice to her remains the same now, for the good times and the bad: whatever future / unfolds, you will never walk / this wide earth alone.