Thursday Gypsy

Thursday Gypsy

Linda prepared for bed

confident she could not receive bad news.

It was Thursday, bad news

was announced in dreams on Fridays.

Linda walked over to the drawer

and took out the tied chicken legs,

and rubbed the tattoos, stricken

by the taunt of sailors, on the right side

of her neck for good luck.

Gypsies don’t read each other’s palms.

They understand war casualties, letter writing the fog,

black and white images that make you forget the wind.

She refused to think about the fuzz on his back,

how it spread to his buttocks.

The maid walked in the bedroom with the Acacia oil.

She was as thin as phyllo dough with a huge belly.

The señora wants me to brush her hair?

―Wait. Please, wash your hands. My husband

will be home in the morning, I want my hair noticeable.

Look at you, skinnier by the day. Are you certain

about not telling me who the father is?

Señora, he is an important man.

He won’t give a shit about my baby.