The “Greater Trumps” are the major Arcana of the tarot. This piece is based on pictures from the classic Rider-Waite deck.

0. The Fool’s Dog: He smells interesting. Like a long walk and sweaty. Like sex too. His crotch smells like sex.

I like the smell. I push up against him to remind myself of the fragrance. A little while later I’m not sure I still remember it exactly, so I push up against him again.

I wonder who the woman was.

I wonder what she smells like now.

1. The Tree Above the Magus: The sun is warm. The sun is tasty.

The wind whispers that fall is coming. She tests my leaves to see if they will come loose.

I am perfectly aware that fall is coming. But today, the sun is delicious.

The man below me poses as if he is someone special.

But he’s in my shade.

2. The Scroll in the High Priestess’s Hand: She holds me gingerly as if I am fragile; but I am parchment. Decades ago, I was the skin of a sheep. When the sheep was shorn, I was all that protected it from the elements. Rain made me slick. Snow melted slowly against me. I wasn’t fragile then.

The sheep died, but I was rescued. Humans blessed me and scraped me clean. They scratched me with quills; it stung, but it made me special in their eyes.

I don’t know what they wrote.

The woman’s hand is warm and gentle. It reminds me of my sheep.

3. The Dress of the Empress: Am I not of regal cloth? Am I not elegant? Am I not luxuriant with color?

I was designed by a man from across the sea. I was sewn by imperial seamstresses. One seamstress was whipped because her hems were uneven. Right in the palace workrooms: the woman was whipped in front of me. A speck of her blood sprayed onto the cloth, where it falls across the Empress’s breast. No one noticed. It blended right in.

Isn’t that delightful?

Each morning, the Empress rises from her bed and puts me on. Three maids help with her hair and makeup and perfumes, but she puts me on by herself. I drape her body; she basks in my caresses.

If she did not surround herself with my finery, she would not feel like an Empress.

Without me, she is nothing.

4. The Emperor’s Crown: For five hundred years, I have watched this family. This boy, his father, his grandfather…so many generations I’ve lost count. Some were good rulers; some were tyrants; some were mad.

This boy is the best of the line. He’s rather stupid, but he keeps his hair clean.

5. The Two Monks Who Kneel Before the Hierophant: One of us will replace the Old Man soon. He can’t live much longer. His mind wanders. He mumbles when he’s giving an audience, and he mumbles when he’s alone.

At one time, he was the voice of the gods on Earth. They possessed him and spoke through him.

Now he mumbles.

I wonder what it feels like when the gods speak through you. It’s frightening to imagine. In all the pantheon, there isn’t a single god you’d want to turn your back on. If you lent your coat to a god, you’d never get it back again. Not in one piece. So why is it such an honor to lend them your tongue?

Stop mumbling, old man. Pull yourself together.

6. The Snake Who Watches the Lovers: Humans know nothing about love. They stand beside each other naked and think nakedness is love.

A snake knows love.

Love is the smell that drags you away from everything that is safe, across fields, over roads, into villages, while in the back of your mind a voice tells you truly, “If humans see you, you’ll die.” Not death by languishing, but death by crushing, feet trampling you as bones snap and guts rupture. And you continue anyway, not because you want anything but you are incapable of seeing anything but the path toward passion.

Humans think that lovers are star-crossed if their families disapprove.

At their most ardent, humans still take a moment to find a soft place to lie down.

7. The Black Sphinx Who Pulls the Chariot: The conquering hero rides through the city, believing he is the terror and envy of all who see him. With his helmet stuffed down around his ears, he can’t hear the muttering of the people in the street.

“Can’t he afford a horse?”

“I knew him when he was a brat who threw stones at old women.”

“Putting on weight, isn’t he?”

When he parks this chariot outside the Ministry of War, children come and scratch my ears. They call me kitty.

8. The Flowers That Girdle the Woman of Strength: What is the nature of strength?

Nothing fights with us flowers. Nothing eats us, except for the occasional budworm. People don’t try to make their reputation by conquering us.

The woman of strength strives to close the lion’s mouth, and this time she succeeds. Or maybe it’s just that this time, the lion allows himself to be subdued.

If the lion wins the next time and tears her apart, we flowers will certainly be damaged too. But the lion won’t go out of his way to hurt us. He won’t resent us. He won’t want revenge on a bunch of flowers.

What is the nature of strength?

9. The Hermit’s Staff: Straighter than any tree that ever grew…I was a tree once, a sapling. Cut down by a woodcutter, because it was his nature to cut wood. Selected by an artisan, because I stood straighter than my fellows. Whittled and trimmed, planed and sanded…shaved down to some human’s idea of how trees should really grow.

I am half the diameter I once was. A spindly weakling. If this hermit put his full weight on me, I would snap.

But I am very straight.

I am here for symbolism, not support.

10. The Creature That Bears the Wheel of fortune: The wheel doesn’t float in midair; I hold it up.

The crowd watching the wheel thinks that it turns on its own. I like to foster that illusion.

“Oh, no!” I shout. “It’s turning, it’s turning, oh, no! Harvests will be bad, winter will be hard, infants will be born sickly.” And people of the celestial audience shake their heads gravely as if the universe has revealed its callousness.

“At last!” I shout. “It’s turning, it’s turning at last! Crops will ripen, summer will be kind, children will laugh and see the world with wondering eyes.” And people of the celestial audience sing hymns to laud the banishment of evil.

The spectators think the wheel turns on its own.

They think it really has an effect.

When I grow bored of this game, I’m going to drop the wheel and watch the looks on their faces.

11. The King Who Bears the Scales of Justice: Visitors to my court wonder why I’m not wearing a blindfold. But if I wore a blindfold, how could I read the scales? Put my finger on one side or the other? That would give a fair reading, wouldn’t it?

I’m not being cynical.

I know that if I were wearing a blindfold, I’d peek. People wearing blindfolds always peek. Stage magicians. Knife-throwers. Children pinning the tail on the donkey.

I’m not being cynical.

It wouldn’t matter. The scales still work. Justice is served.

But a blindfold would be pure showmanship.

Not that I have any complaint with showmanship. I’ve thought of getting a blindfold so people would believe I’m impartial.

“It’s not enough for justice to be done; people must believe justice has been done.” People always repeat that maxim after the scales make an unpopular judgment. What they mean is that the truth is not good enough if the truth is unappealing. They don’t want the scales to reveal the truth, they want the scales to confirm majority opinion.

I’m not being cynical.

12. The Tree That Bears the Hanged Man: Other trees get normal lynchings. On me, they hang the guy upside down.

I feel ridiculous.

The lynch mob strung him up last night. There was a lot of shouting, a lot of hysterics. No one mentioned what this guy’s crimes were. If any. The mob laughed and cursed loud enough to frighten the squirrels out of my branches.

At one point, I thought two of the vigilantes were going to get into a fight, but the others stopped them. I don’t know what it was all about.

Then they hung up this guy by his foot.

What morons.

It hasn’t hurt him. He’s humming to himself. Humming, for God’s sake! He sounds quite cheerful.

What morons.

The elm across the road has been sniggering for the last two hours.

It’ll be the talk of the county.

I’ll never live this down.

13. The Bishop Who Follows the Specter of Death: Some criticize me. Some say I give the murderer legitimacy.

No. Not true.

I have never condoned death. Nor war. Nor famine. Nor pestilence.

I march in the parade of destruction because I have vowed to attend those who suffer misfortune. I am in the parade, but not of the parade.

I have no vested interest in suffering. But when suffering happens, a righteous man must face the problems head-on. He must take action.

Bless you. Bless you. Bless you.

14. The Pool of Temperance: I’m working on a stone. Millennia ago, a lizard of a now-extinct species knocked a stone off the bank. The stone was red and sharp-edged. Quartz, I think.

I was looking for a project at the time. Something to keep me busy. Something to occupy my mind in the dry days of summer. Something I could look at and think, “I made this. It’s mine.”

The stone is my project. It’s almost smooth now. A smooth, speckled red.

It’s pretty. I think so, anyway.

The angel above me has his foot on the stone and seems to find it comfortable. My stone is clean and polished. I’m proud of that.

I know it’s not much. It’s just a stone. But it’s mine, it’s mine, it’s mine.

I made it. Me.

15. The Devil’s Pedestal: Day 2,189,345 in Hell. Noon. Greenwich Mean Time.

Satan lifts a claw and gores another notch in my side. Two witnesses stand by to watch, to make sure all the legal formalities are observed. This is Hell; we believe in legal formalities.

There are now 2,189,345 notches in my side. I am zebraed with notches, tigered with notches. One notch for each day of damnation.

I am the calendar of Hell.

Satan lives in dread of losing track of his time here. Sometimes he forgets whether he’s made the notch for the day, and he gnaws at his talons, trying to decide whether he should make another notch. But he knows if he’s already made today’s mark, another would throw off the count.

He goes through this every day. Despite the rigorous routine, despite the witnesses. And he worries that sometime in the past, millennia ago or just yesterday, he really did make a mistake and now he’s permanently wrong.

I have no trouble keeping track of his notches. I know how fresh my pain is.

If Satan clawed his own hide, he’d know too.

16. The Sparks Shooting from the Tower: This tower stood for two hundred and fifty years.

It resisted five enemy attacks. Those who lived in the tower praised its strength. Honored it with songs. Spread its fame through all countries.

More than four hundred children have been born within its walls. Most grew to adulthood here, and died when their time came.

Diplomats came here from across the sea. They complimented the strong walls, the view that commands the surrounding territory, the strategic positioning of wells and storehouses.

This tower stood for two hundred and fifty years.

We sparks last a second at most.

Don’t you dare feel sorry for this damned tower.

17. The Bird Observing the Star: A woman is pouring water, some on the ground, some into a pool. Huge white stars circle around an enormous yellow one.

Portents. Humans love portents. Humans hunger after portents.

We birds haven’t forgotten about Roman auguries. The priests slit living birds open, just to look for portents in their entrails. Entrails…humans always use the word “entrails.” The truth is the priests would cut out our hearts. They cut out our livers. They cut out our intestines and scanned them inch by inch like stockbrokers examining ticker tape.

Stockbrokers examine ticker tape for portents.

We birds see everything, from stockbrokers to stars, but we don’t see portents. Birds have no portents, not even portents of things that concern us, like winter. One fall day we find ourselves flying south, that’s all.

That’s all.

18. The Dog Who Bays at the Moon: Wolves howl at the moon.

Dogs bay.

Here’s the difference.

A wolf is shouting a challenge, crying defiance at the great face in the sky. A wolf is saying, “Despite hunters and hunger and sickness and snow, I’ll be here again next month, same as you. You go on and I’ll go on. You might be hidden by a cloud, but I’ll still be here. And when I die, my children will howl for me, and the pack will howl and every pack will howl, until you slink below the horizon. We are forever.”

A dog is greeting a companion, a fellow traveler that humans revere or ignore. A dog is saying, “You and me, moon, we’re the ones who know how to laugh. Whatever damned thing the human race comes up with next, it’s okay with us. Dogs are no more domesticated than you are, moon; we’re just easygoing. Why make a fuss? Eating is good, sniffing is good, sleeping is good. Most things are okay.”

That’s what we dogs say to the moon.

It’s the only sane attitude. Wolves are too intense.

19. The Sunflowers Beneath the Sun: Height! More height! More height!

Height is sun and sun is height.

The pretty-doll flowers in the garden next to us are irrational. They hug the ground. They keep their heads down. They don’t compete.

Why? Why? Why?

It must be some mutual agreement to remain mediocre. If no one sticks her head up, no one else gets overshadowed. And they’re all so spineless—they’re so afraid of losing if they take a chance, they’re so reluctant to seem rude—they remain prissy little runts all their lives.

We sunflowers have more stomach. We strangle each other. We compete. More height means more sun. More sun means more height.

The prissy little runts ask how much sun and height a flower really needs.

More! The answer is always more!

20. The Trumpet That Wakes the Dead for Judgment: It’s no big deal. At the End of Time, the angel Gabriel will use me to blow a single note and the dead will rise from their graves. Until then, I stay silent.

I can handle that.

Gabriel can’t. It’s a big responsibility for him, and he’d like to practice. Sometimes he takes me out of the case, puts my mouthpiece to his lips, and thinks about playing. Something soft. Something so low human ears couldn’t hear it. But he knows it’s like biting a balloon—big bite or small, the effect is the same.

I have this hunch about the way Heaven works. I don’t think Gabriel will ever be given the signal that it’s time to blow. I think someday the temptation will just grow too great and he’ll crack. He may try a quiet little toot or blast a fanfare that makes the stars echo, but sooner or later he’ll break. And that will be the End of Time.

Running things this way, God doesn’t have to make the big decision. He just appoints Gabriel as the scapegoat and waits for all hell to break loose.

Me, I’m patient. It will happen or it won’t.

Gabriel polishes me every day with the vigor of a man who needs to keep his hands busy. He doesn’t sleep well.

21. The Wreath on the Card Called the World: A woman dances, holding a baton. She is clad only in a tastefully draped ribbon.

I surround her, a green wreath with the silhouette of an egg.

In the four corners of the sky, faces look at us: a lion, an eagle, an angel, and a bull.

So. Which one of us is “the world”?

Me? The woman? The watchers? All of us? Some mysterious whole that encompasses us?

Or simply the ink that depicts us and the cardboard that gives the ink something to cling to?

Philosophers may amuse themselves making arguments for each possibility. Theologians may obtain their god’s version of the truth and expound it from the pulpit. Cynics may say that the designers of the Tarot didn’t know what the hell the world was about, so they took the opportunity to draw another naked woman.

Anything’s possible.

Anything’s possible.

Anything’s possible.

“Lesser Figures of the Greater Trumps”: This is what one calls a prose poem… or at least what I call a prose poem, for lack of a better name. At the time I wrote it, I could be pretty confident most readers would be familiar with the Rider-Waite tarot deck. I don’t know if that’s true anymore. The world seems to have acquired a disdain for such things; and not for healthy reasons like sincere rationalism, but simply because disdain comes so easily. Pity.