we share the title—her of clubs & me of spades,
Daddy the King of hearts, of course. we rule over

the white noise of what is snow / the white noise of the fan
sucking the hot air out / the white noise of history. we rule

over how I turn down the volume of the radio at the hour
when the news comes on. I rule over being alive
& so huge—a lumbering giant to her birdbone frame.

today is Wednesday or a day we go for a walk in the wrong
stroller, her first walk. we meet the bayou & I weep for the way
the stones along the road jostle her, how the mud

clouds the surface & we can’t see how close the fish
swim, if they still school. she was born on a Monday,
which used to mean fair of face, when days of the week

meant more than they can now, like when they were first named
after the sun, the moon, & the five planetary bodies the Babylonians knew—
god of war, god of thunder, god of fun & feasting, the king of gods

& the queen. now, today is a day we go for a walk. now, yesterday
is a day we ordered takeout. tomorrow is still white noise, an impermanent
unknown. will it be a day we drink the last of the milk, summon

a storm from the clouds, spray down the mail twice with everclear
& essential oils, lavender & bergamot: once for safety, second, an offering—
though to whom, to what, is unclear. even queens need make offerings,

I tell her, stroking her head--
perhaps especially queens, I say.

Kimberly Ann Southwick is an Assistant Professor of Creative Writing and English at Jacksonville State University. Her first full-length collection, ORCHID ALPHA, is forthcoming from Trembling Pillow Press. Kimberly is the founder and Editor in Chief of the literary-arts journal GIGANTIC SEQUINS. Find her on twitter @kimannjosouth or visit her kimberlyannsouthwick.com for more.