Originally published in Issue #13. June 2013

I like to read horoscopes,
fortune cookies. My grandmother told me
never say a baby’s beautiful:
the
evil eye might snatch her.
Bridegrooms should walk backwards.
For protection, spit three times.
Driving down Wise Road
I chant, E=mc 2, any two points determine a line.
The road leads to Rock Creek
where once a year I empty my pockets,
to watch my sins flow toward the depths of the sea.
I wish on stars and birthday candles.
I knock on wood. I need all the help
I can get. Little prayers climb stairs,
jump off rooftops, try to fly.