on superstitions
i was raised reading a bible
of conditional statements
& sometimes the good book.
before bed, mom recited proverbs.
if you play with your shadow,
then it will eat you. but i never did
believe her, flipped a switch
after she turned the lights off
& left, my flashlight beaming
an O across my bedroom wall,
my fingers bending & twisting
into black foxes that escaped
into my room. i didn’t play
with my shadows. i made theater
of skepticism & let them star
in the show. but once, half-awake,
i caught them scaling the wall,
stretching into a maw. i feared
becoming their meal & screamed
for mom. what did i tell you?
i stopped playing with my shadows
& started ignoring the pastor
when he’d call superstitions the devil’s
proverbs. i still believed in God
but also my bible. my bible a game
of telephone that first rang across
the ocean or inside a sugar cane field
or in the still air after a hurricane.
my bible an insurance policy
against what God won’t cover.
my bible an instruction manual
on how to collar the uncontrollable
& teach it to come running
when i call its name
Copyright © 2025 by Mckendy Fils-Aimé. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on June 9, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.