New Poetry: The Destruction Loops (Part 3)

3

in my nightstand, talismans
for each disaster:

     sweet grass from a cherokee lover

     my fifth grade teacher's
     handwriting, days before her death

     blackened bundle of sage, saint
     michael, stolen wiccan's compact.

turning in my hand like liars'
dice
     turning thrum
     of placebo.  i am

     a beggar when it comes
     to life. i take

     whatever rope of vapors
     comes my way.