I am a young mother

so bored staying home

I agree to play Bridge

with my neighbors,

who I suspect put up with me

to find a fourth to fill the table.

They are goddesses of domestic arts,

and between games hold forth

on finer points of decoupage, macramé

and the transformation of cans

into casseroles.

Still, I am smug

for I have gifts of my own:

precognitive dreams

and gift of the phone,

which I demonstrate by chanting

Mother Mother Mother Dear

call me now while my friends are here,

and when the phone rings

they are believers.

Because I love an audience,

I tell them my dreams:

how I see trash cans burning

the night before they burst in flame

behind my house,

how Papa’s heart attack

awakens me from sleep.

How I knew the night before she labored

Jan’s baby boy would be born dead.

Now the neighbors play three-handed games—

Pinochle, Euchre—

keep their children indoors,

cross against the light

when they see me coming.