Old Maid, by Laurel Benjamin

The Old Maids, by Leonora Carrington (Mexico, b. England) 1947

Old Maid 
 
My friend shouted, discard, discard, pair of cards flashed 
hands down on the table, punch spurting 
 
on her blouse. I couldn't act fast enough, staring 
at magpies out the window who'd come to pick scraps 
 
left from garbagemen. I never wanted to pair up, caught a reflection 
of bird feathers and instructions for how to spread 
 
an attraction fan, and even that I couldn't manage, instead opened 
my beak to what could be found close to ground. My friend always won 
 
with the odd card, called Old Maid, though it was my brother 
who said the winner was a loser as he ran out the door 
 
to play with boys in the street, or did he even grasp 
why he repeated the winning phrase far from tablecloths 
 
and tea pots. Since then, my relationships have depended 
on not winning, not chanting discard, discard--
 
even my marriage. My friend and I still play games 
though we're older--Mille Bornes, The Un-Game, 
 
but I don't confess about a figure I've seen crouching 
in the corner. I'm sure it's waiting to trick us, 
 
ghost of what we used to be or what's ahead, doused 
in a shroud. Maybe it's a magpie. I tell her I read about the bird 
 
and how scientists installed tracking devices, 
yet within hours wiley beaks and claws 
 
tore off the constraints. ​

Laurel Benjamin

Laurel Benjamin is a San Francisco Bay Area native, where she invented a secret language with her brother. Her work overall holds themes of family and sibling connections, a journey, nature, environment, extinction, curiosity and the idea of actual versus alternate life. There is loss in what is not said, unspoken and connected to, for example, the mother and the idea of mother. She is affiliated with the Bay Area Women’s Poetry Salon and Ekphrastic Writers. She is a reader for Common Ground Review and has featured in the Lily Poetry Review Salon.