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One Poem 

Beth Gordon

Particularly Dangerous Situation

You met a Pagan in Ireland within walking distance
of the lighthouse where Marconi experimented with radio

waves, unaware that no amount of science would save
the Titanic passengers, the dashes and dots would arrive

too late. When the passenger ferry didn’t show up, you rode
in her Oldsmobile and she read your palm, predicted that you

would always have trouble breathing. She said I told you we
would meet again, she said I predicted the rain. She handed

you a magic slate rock filled with thunder and the breathing
habits of long-distance runners. Over glasses of beer she confessed

that she was dying, not a thing to share with just anyone. When
did this start you asked, and two weeks later when you told me

the story, I already knew her answer: The moment I was born.