Sylvie
Knox wiggling out of another confession.
But who am I to demand one? Someone
who wouldn’t mind a little company
in the jail cell of her heart. Which might look
something like the Roadside Psycho’s—
sorry, Psychic’s—setup, a white cinderblock box
that was probably a church in a past life. But
instead of corny pastor jokes (God answers
knee-mails!), the letterboard reads
YOUR FATE IS KNOWN TO ME,
which is made still creepier by the peeling F
in FATE. I think it’s messed up
how much more we believe things
when they’re written down, like the act
of squeegeeing those letters up on the sign
converted an idea from nonsense
to gospel. And still, Sylvie the hypocrite,
I’m doing it now—what if the psychic
can see the long clean line of it,
every mess-up feeding into the next?
What if Miss Tara was warning me
that this fortune teller actually knows
what she’s doing? What if she looks him
dead in the eyes and says: Knox, this girl loves you,
and she kills what she loves.