Threading the palm, a web of little lines
Spells out the lost money, the heart, the head,
The wagging tounges, the sudden deaths, in signs
We would smooth out, like imprints on a bed,
In signs that can’t be helped, geese heading south,
In signs read anxiously, like breath that clouds
A mirror held to a barely open mouth,
Like telegrams, the gathering of crowds -
The plane’s X in the sky, spelling disaster;
Before the whistle and hit, a tracer flare;
Before rubble, a hairline crack in plaster
And a housefly’s panicked scribbling on the air.
"Signs" by Gjertrud Schnackenberg
People are weird and beautiful and believe in simple things with desperate honor to superstition. I love how this highlights small moments that mean everything. I’m not usually one for rhyming poems but in this one, I think, rhyming is superstition.