Luck | Amanda Boyanowski-Morin

I bowed to the ground, picked up nine four-leaf clovers -

six five-leaf clovers too. Their petals sliced by mower blades

speckled by pesticides, singed by sun. They were ugly.

I took all the bitter luck that field offered,

flattened them into bleached pages.

Pressed them tight, bound them with a leather cord.

The cluster was next to a park bench. Perhaps I should have left

their dirty magic for another to find –

but I have always been selfish.

When I was young, I would choke myself during recess

fingertips squeezing petechia into both sides of my neck.

Icon of shifting colors, capable of holding on until passing out

in glassy-eyed third grade.

I watched their faces.

Someday I will crack my notebook,

hold it open,

Look how bruised they are.

---

Amanda Boyanowski-Morin is a poet, wanderer, and adaptive climber whose work largely deals with the changing body and Anthropocene. Amanda can be found with her Service Dog, Rowan, knitting along the paths and vernal pools of Rhode Island and Southern Massachusetts.