There Are Black Eyed Peas on the Stove

I am the cart behind the ever-dragging
mule of superstition. I receive my fortune
at a shrine and make of it an animal,
too. Tied to a post like a dog, like a sack
of bones. I won’t see the day it smokes
the foot of god, but I’ll remember
that good fortune bit me. Listen to this:
the crows got so loud last night that I ran
outside; I watched them pulsing in the air
like a bruise, and until I die I’ll never know
how that wound got there. It’s no wonder
I lash myself to the hoofbeats of the mule.
The cart wheels drag across loamy earth,
her large patches of hair, some which make me
imagine I am brushing against the soft fuzz
of a cheek, other times so dense and coarse
that I blush at our rubbing, touching.
I’ll tell you this: the cart outlives the mule
Eventually. The post outlives the dog.
I didn’t go outside to see the crows, I stood
at the window for a moment, then left
the blackening hole to fester.