by Connie Wasem Scott

It’s clear he’ll never be happy. He’s

strung up by an ankle

and hangs from a tree.

Shall I read into this?

Project onto the tree

the role of the father,

the hands that strung him up

first? See how he tucks

his hands behind his back.

What is he hiding? This card’s

inverted, it appears the man is

standing on one leg, the other

crooked at the knee like he’s

relaxed, but he’s never at ease, he’s pulled

down by forces he can’t see. See

that band of yellow light that

arcs round his head? Don’t be fooled.

That’s no aura of a saint.

Connie Wasem Scott lives in Spokane, WA, where she teaches the range of English classes at Spokane Falls Community College and enjoys the great outdoors with her Aussie-American husband. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Streetlight, The Shore, Cathexis Northwest, Minerva Rising, Sycamore Review, RHINO, and elsewhere.