Days, nights pass. I haven’t 
been showing up to my appointments 
with Doreen, the astrologer 
who works under a purple length 
of felt in her twin sons’ bedroom.
She claims they are conjoined,
a single power un-divided by God, 
but I saw one of them once alone. 
I prefer the unflappable guidance
in these emails from a colleague
that say—kill yourself
you ugly infertile bitch.
These being more in line 
with my values. Many compulsive
activities find themselves
in the cradle of my hands
when I am left without
something to hold onto. A tarot card
once fell from Doreen’s deck
as she shuffled and she trapped it
under her slipper. Dared me
to pull it out from under her sole
if I was ready to face the truth. I haven’t 
been back. Earlier I jogged past her house, 
thinking of this advice I read online: 
while running, keep the fists loose, 
as if there is something in them. 
The pain of endurance is forced 
along a path of less resistance. At night
my fingers curl into this same shape, 
as if around a small handgun. Dreaming 
of what wonderful ideas await me.