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Tiredly, I play Death.
It weeps rust as it settles:
coating our hair
drawing ash over ruins
of the old world sleeping.
We sit deep in its bowels,
using its legs as a table.

My sister tosses The Hierophant.
The card flutters face down – too late.
Far too late. In seconds it is gone.
She pays its skeleton no attention.
Our last sister throws down The Queen.

The old world groans.
It sags under the weight
of dresses and wood,
rotten to the core.
And inside, feeding,
The stains of last days and dead regrets,
Lit only by radiation.

“It’s been too long,” I reflect.
Too long, yes. Time, like chewing pips,
and spitting out the bitter seeds,
has shrunk while watching television,
or holograms in the Veldt.

“So where shall we three meet again?”
“Screw the lightning,” my sister says.
Irritation crabs her voice.
“I’m too old for that shit. Let’s do sun.”
Yes, sunlight and the taste of rain:
I lick my lips. “Okay.”

I play The Tower,
She meets with The Lovers,
Our last sister slams down The Hanged Man.

And everything changes.
Turned around, upside down,
a glimpse of bloody birth,
like raw liver glistening in the dark.

One last card left.
I lay down The World:
And then there is light.

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