On the porch of the lavender house where Sister Lisa reads tarot, insects crowd like refugees in the yellow light. Sister Lisa is much the border guard, foot in the door, poised, worn hands full of prophecies, taking us inside one by one. Later, our pockets empty, we will be ready to enter the world again. She would steal from the stars if she could hide their light in her escape. Proprietress of a ramshackle temple of prediction, she leads us to every promised land, nightly.

There will be bourbon for bums, a gigolo for the brokenhearted, young flesh for the priests, love for the truly lonely, eternal life for the suicidal, dark sleep for weary spirits, mending ways for the ill, real and imagined.

In short, she can give us everything in the world. We stand patiently with the bugs outside her house, breathing in the yellow air, all of us shoplifted spirits intent on salvation.