SAINT JULIAN PRESS
Stephanie Kartalopoulos ~ Poet
Stephanie Kartalopoulos ~ Poet
EL FORTUNA
for my grandmother
Not a quarter in your left hand, nor any Saturday
standing in front of the fortune-telling machine.
Not a poultice of warm spices soaking
in the bath tub. And not a medallion
etched with twigs and crows’ feet. I was still
born the girl with the inward curve above my lip,
eggshells lacing the edges of my fingers, a steady
force toward uncertainty. And you are still
folded in a hospital bed, your mouth opened
like an over-ripe quince, and eyes searching
for the nurse who dabs your ears
with fresh perfume. No luck, no prayers,
no lit candles on your feast day. Not even
if I pour salts over your dearest forehead.
Not even if I roll a handful of peas
inside a sieve can I change this course.
for my grandmother
Not a quarter in your left hand, nor any Saturday
standing in front of the fortune-telling machine.
Not a poultice of warm spices soaking
in the bath tub. And not a medallion
etched with twigs and crows’ feet. I was still
born the girl with the inward curve above my lip,
eggshells lacing the edges of my fingers, a steady
force toward uncertainty. And you are still
folded in a hospital bed, your mouth opened
like an over-ripe quince, and eyes searching
for the nurse who dabs your ears
with fresh perfume. No luck, no prayers,
no lit candles on your feast day. Not even
if I pour salts over your dearest forehead.
Not even if I roll a handful of peas
inside a sieve can I change this course.