We were fascinated
by the flutter of the cards
my father shuffled on
the faded kitchen table oilcloth
week after week
cards laid out in rows
black, red, black, red,
kings’ and queens’ faces
faded as antique postcards.
He played his morning games
in private reverie, his fingers gentle,
caressing each card.
We left for school knowing
he would shave, shower,
drive off to call on folks
on far-flung rural roads,
strike fear in their hearts
with his tales of catastrophes.
He sold them insurance policies
they couldn’t afford yet would buy,
felled by the weight of his persuasion,
his magic-trick sales pitch,
doing in the end, like us,
what they did not want to do.
Lisa Ashley, a 2021 Pushcart Prize nominee, descends from survivors of the Armenian genocide and has supported incarcerated youth for many years. Her poems have appeared, or will soon appear, in Gyroscope Review, Willows Wept Review, Thimble, Juniper, Amsterdam Quarterly, Last Leaves Literary Review, The Healing Muse, Young Ravens Review, Blue Heron Review and others. She writes from her log home on an island in the Pacific Northwest and navigates her garden and wooded lot with physical limitations, in constant wonder. Lisa holds a Master of Divinity degree and a BA in Journalism. She is working on her first manuscript.