The Numbers
Vivian, the psychic at the strip mall
says I have multiple great loves.
She says 2, 12 & 33 are my lucky numbers.
Did you dream of weak fish or a fat tummy,
a coffin denotes marriage, snow foretells
a pleasant journey. Maybe I should get a dog
or if not, how about a Trans Am.
I saw a lighthouse once and it was heartbroken.
This was in Maine with one of my other great loves.
I long for pills and a sunken tub
moonlight like hot pee
fortune cookies, Pornhub.
Not everything that moves us is a masterpiece.
I’m craving sushi.
Let’s go to that place in the South Shore Plaza.
Do you think Japanese fishermen
really have sex with stingrays
or is that a metaphor for colonialism?
Vivian, I saw a woman reading at the park
and wanted to ask her what she was reading
and then remembered the line
by Gertrude Stein about forgetting grammar
and thinking about potatoes.
No, no, nothing changes
until the nurse practitioner tickles my balls
and says the numbers are getting high.
What numbers, I say.
All of them, she says. And she has a point.
Viv, all joking aside
I planned to write you a quatern
but got bored by the third refrain.
I watched a French film instead
and then masturbated and fell asleep.
It was the one with the dead bodies and morels.
The end of the world looks so pretty.
Damon Hubbs is the poetry editor at Blood+Honey and The Argyle Magazine. He’s the author of the full-length collection Venus at the Arms Fair (Alien Buddha Press, 2024). Recent publications include Pool Party Magazine, Horror Sleaze Trash, Urban Pigs Press, Yellow Mama, Expat Press, Farewell Transmission, and others. He lives in New England.
