Cold Tarot

Rubbed sage saturates her salt lamp. Rose quartz sits on her altar. Shuffling the deck, she glances at me, then gently lays the deck on the reading cloth. Twice I cut the deck. As the cards appear, she tells me I had a past life with Langston Hughes. Confused, I nod, to hear her say that I will meet a man in New York City and develop a relationship with him. Oh, to be a black femme in search of fifteen minutes of truth. Were there better uses for my twenty five dollars? Maybe. But this time I’m not fooled.