Author Archives: Puff Of Smoke Poems

In another dream, you could buy fortune, 20 cents each. You had to buy plenty of them, though. In the whole marketplace, stuffed with fortune vendors, each was in charge of just a tiny bit of fortune—your favorite color becoming famous, no flat tires in the rain, full moons on nights you wanted to stroll outdoors, fresh pomegranates on sale every day, no weeds in the garden—that kind of thing.

And payment was very confusing. It sounded straightforward—20 cents each. But as fast as people put down the coins, the fortune vendors were sliding back change across the counter and soon it was all flashes of gold and copper back and forth across the counter so fast that you couldn’t count anymore.

You step back, out of breath and headachey, clutching the coins you have left, not sure exactly what you’ve purchased or what else you ought to buy or if you’ve enough coins left for what you need.

That’s when you see it. Off to the left, in a stall apart from the others, up a little flight of rickety wooden stairs is a different kind of fortune vendor. You’ve heard of them in old stories, but didn’t think they were real. Or at least not still in existence. You certainly never thought to see one for yourself in this lifetime. But there she was, her booth so quiet compared to the bustling and shoving of the market.

And so you went to her. If nothing else, it was worth the quiet. No one else visited her stall. The whole idea was too preposterous, too old-fashioned. Pay your 20 cents and this lady would guarantee nothing. She’d just tell you your fortune. Whatever she saw. Out loud. It was amazing.

Sometimes, instead of poem-shaped, words come together as pieces of stories we didn’t write yet.  Usually what lands in my lap tastes like the beginning of a story, something that would make a meal, or at the very least, a hearty snack, if I followed its scent to the kitchen, where the rest of it is simmering on the stove.  Here’s one now…

     Whenever the queen moved, small bones crunched beneath her feet. Tiny dead things caught at the hem of her red velvet gown, then fell away. It was as if, even in death, they wished to skitter and scramble far from her.
     Every fairy tale requires an evil queen. She must be lovely, and cold. Ice at every window of her castle.
     Yet, who froze your father’s bones in that distant winter?
     Who brought rains and drought to the farm fields outside the village?
     It wasn’t me, whispered the queen.