Collector of Luck

I am afraid there is

something terrible


wrong with me. I go

about my night things.


My walk makes a sound

like this, thisthis, this


footsoles shushing

the floorboards, whispering


trust—that the stair will be

there, when I’m able to cross


it. When I can. I look in

on my books like infants—


Oh you sleep so well, Jericho,

and Deuteronomy, and all


the other names I keep

in books with leaves


and four-leaf clovers—or

almost four-leaf clovers.


Whatever luck is possible

in pressed lettuce, or tulips—


what is too full of rain

to really keep, but not


to love. This penny

I glue to the bottom


of my shoe, keep treading

on—the face of the dead


good man kissing

whatever I cross.




Annah Browning is a Ph.D. candidate in the Program for Writers at The University of Illinois-Chicago, and the author of a chapbook, The Marriage (Horse Less Press, 2013). Her poems have recently appeared in Verse Daily, Indiana Review, Willow Springs, Boulevard, Radar Poetry, and other journals. She is an editor of Grimoire, an online literary magazine of witchy and the weird.


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