Sylvie Juxtaposition
The psychic even got her business listed
on the little blue sign by the exit, an arrow
it’s a gas station where you fill up your eternal soul.
Do I squeal? Probably. I love this mix of the stupid
and the transcendent—the empty Zumiez storefront
in the mall, doors open and dark, like a portal
to the fourth dimension, or the time my stepdad
said to my mom, You take me for granite! Or Knox,
dappled beautiful in the sun, philosopher-smart,
stuffing a Jimmy John’s into his open maw. Wondering
what kind of all-knowing seer would choose
to work out of this dingy Victorian with a flickering
neon queen of hearts in the window?
Like if she could actually see into your future, wouldn’t
she already be on the Kardashians’ payroll? I tell myself:
I am going to have a good time. I am going to do something
teenage and stupid. Good stupid. In the waiting room,
Knox turns a delicate quartz over and over
in his strong hands. Keeps his face serious
for my sake, I think. Juxtaposition:
tall broad-shouldered boy under a sign that says
THE FEMININE DIVINE. Juxtaposition: me calm
and Knox nervous, for once. I want to tease him about it,
What are you worried she’s gonna find out? until the curtains part
for a woman with X-ray eyes who stops short at the sight
of us and asks, What took you so long?