Seven

In eighth grade my parents,

allowed me to invite

six friends to a birthday party.

Number seven lived across our backyard fence.

When I was not invited to after school parties,

I convinced myself I must be number seven.

Close enough to the door to hear laughter.

Never close enough to be invited in.

_____

In our neighbor’s garden,

Zinnias grew above my head

Mr. Johnson said the praying mantis

hidden among the leaves

had a bite that could kill little boys

if they played in his garden.

_____

Old wives’ tales say,

if you walk over found money

you will remain poor.

I broke the wishbone large,

knocked on wood,

threw coins in fountains,

blew out all the candles,

I did all the right things,

but I remained

poor.

_____

I stepped over the broom,

avoided sidewalk cracks,

tried not to tempt the evil eye

or say the name of death

when our child was sleeping.

But this did not keep our daughter from dying.

_____

When certainty flees,

mythology remains.

It slips beneath green leaves,

waits beside a praying mantis,

sleeps among wishbones,

found coins, wood, fountains,

and in the blue smoke

of blown out birthday candles.

_____

Perhaps, we keep old rituals alive

for the hope it gives a heart

while it waits for relief.

Knock on wood.

Make a wish.

Leave room at the table

for number seven.

Because maybe, wishes do come true.

Maybe, wished for miracles expand to fill

empty spaces in between unspoken words.

_____

Maybe, the dead wait patiently

in another dimension.

Maybe, the world will seem less cruel,

if you plant zinnias in your garden

and refrain from lying to little boys.

And maybe, in the places

where certainty has gone missing,

we will learn how to live, again.

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