The Psychic

He said I must pay special attention in cars. He wasn’t, he assured me, saying that I’d be in an accident but that for two weeks some particular caution was in order, &, he said, all I really needed to do was throw the white light of Alma around any car I entered & then I’d be fine. & when I asked about Alma, he said, Oh, come on, you know Alma well. You two were together first in Egypt & then at Stonehenge, & I nodded though I’ve never been— in this life at least—to Stonehenge; then I said, Shouldn’t I always throw the white light of Alma around a car? & when he said, Well, it wouldn’t hurt, I said, What about around planes, houses? What if I throw the white light of Alma around anyone who might need protection from the reckless speed of driving or the reckless swerve & skid of the world? & the psychic opened his hands & shrugged up his shoulders. So despite your doubt or mine as to why I’d gone there, to a psychic, in—I kid you not—a town of psychics—in the first place, right now, as you read this, let me throw the white light of Alma around you & everyone you pass close to today, beloved or stranger, the grocer, the bus driver, the boy on his longboard, the lady you stand silent beside in the elevator, & also I am throwing it around anyone they care about anywhere in the spin of the world, because, we can agree that these days, everywhere, particular caution is in order &, even if unverifiable, the light of my dear sister Alma, couldn’t hurt.

Credit

Copyright © 2019 by Victoria Redel. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on December 16, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets.

About this Poem

“Over the years I’ve had the chance to speak with a couple of psychics and, despite my skepticism, I’ve felt less lonely at the possibility of connections through time past, present and future. I wanted this poem to start with a singular instance of danger where any of us might welcome help and extend the possibilities, a kind of dandelion puff wafting seeds that ease suffering. A small chaos theory of goodness. More and more I want the action of a poem to be a spell of protection, a brief shelter for others I create by shaping language.”
—Victoria Redel