The psychic said

The psychic said

my long-dead Aunt Norma, beatnik

poet-- who in black Capezio flats escaped

Buffalo for San Francisco and a round bed,

before she took sick-- was in league

with my Sicilian grandmother. For my sake

the psychic said, the women I grieved kept me

single, kept my worries on work.  Was it chance

Paul and I met when I stopped wearing Nana's

ring on my left hand like a shy bride of Christ? 

Should I fault Nana guarding my fate,

after all her years married to a stranger

she came to love too late?  Her charm

kept my heart from danger.  Till that Fall

her wedding band, like her love,

claimed a hold from the grave. Could I blame

my aunt? Cool in her elbow-length jangle of silver

bangles, black tights, Mexican wire-spiral

belt at her waist, sloe green eyes always

wide open-- yet left jilted at the altar

by the man she fled Jesus for. I could almost

hear her say: Baby, better you

should study; books don't betray.

Still, I wanted my try.  Could I hear

Nana's blessing as I slipped

her ring from my finger, dropped the old

gold circle like a sigh?

~Maura Alia Badji