Marion Brown

Marion Brown

Tarot

In the hollow of the crescent moon, a vagrant cloud— my grandmother’s hand stirs the pot, the ring finger missing its tip. I do not credit signs, but even a blunt finger points. Oma, the sorceress, bargaining for roots, borrowing from an empty purse, reading the wheel of fortune, comes back at night to stir the silver cup where I never drink or turn over the cards.

What good is money? Fretting about a ruptured supply chain, I smile at gaps on a pantry shelf among stolid cans of tomatoes and tuna—my sliver of self-denial. I channel Oma, who scraped through two world wars in Berlin. Turning off lights to save, she sometimes told my brother and me, “Amerikaner sind glücklich.” Americans are hungry, not lucky. Unemployment soars to its worst level since the Depression. I scan the NY Times. On the front page, the President brags about cutting SNAP—food for hungry kids.