i.
red is lucky. it has to be
a red bike. dad spoke to mom in
mandarin, their secret code for
santa-claus surprises. a red
envelope of sound i did not
understand. january sidewalk-
scuffed knees, the bike frame was too big
my legs stretched past center, toes caught
pedals. wheels turned few times before
i fell. mother said, “it’s okay,
go again. you will get it.”
candy discs dad buys me souring
plumb, near-purple like scabs sealing
knees and elbows. dad did not see
me fall. friday evening pickups
he took pictures of me riding.
i half smiled, a front tooth missing.
red is lucky new year money, my silk
jacket, the band on my easter hat,
my grandma’s swedish christmas boot,
carnations that ride ocean waves after
dad’s ashes. we thought he would object
to white.
ii.
women played cards in
dim red light. i climbed
cafe’s back stairs. my dad
never there inside
only I sat with bawd,
her workers, playing
13-card poker, i
was 13. two hands
of five, one of three
winner takes all. the
bawd’s sister
chopped my hair
short like hers
worker women at
a low oval table
had long hair, short names
they liked to touch my
blonde stunted strands. dad
liked my long earlobes,
called them lucky. a
lighted corner sign
said Massage. i did
not ask, slept there when
told to. i
never did
learn poker.
iii.
shellac nails red talons picked apart crab’s armor
revealed its brain she called a delicacy, “try it.”
mouth: gold mush submission both viscous and mealy.
a jade bracelet slid up and down her wrist.
long-life lucky shackle, she squeezed one over
my soapy skin; wrist bones folded hurt. at recess
playing, swinging, I cracked it on the bars.
grown now i do not get my nails done. no shiny talons
on my fingers. will not make my hands into
ornaments less ready to play, to write, to fight.
lucky is what people call it when they touch,
use, or hurt others without blame
like a virgin or a scapegoat or a child with red hair.
