My grandad was a gambler.

Once, I got to meet him.

Alma mater: Harvard Law,

Still he sunk his teeth in.

He slipped into my oldest dream,

Aimlessly, as if half-dead.

I couldn’t scream; I froze, you see,

His eyes were glowing a ghostly red.

His photos hung upon our walls,

Evoked prestige and mystery.

Striking like a sculpted stone,

He chiseled off his history.

He rolled with the punches,

He rolled the dice,

He held the cards,

And he never thought twice.

Two black licorice beads for eyes,

Shined six-sided red for me.

They spoke of power,

They spoke of pride,

Of pain, of loss,

He bled for me.

When sun had set,

Gone was the gold,

And to the touch,

He was out cold…

Red and black,

He was a friend.

If he had venom,

It was in his head.

Even men most educated,

Bet that they can beat the odds,

Mistaking luck for a skill to master,

Thinking they can cheat the gods.

Even men who balance scales,

Who seek the truth and know the law,

They all fall down like a house of cards,

When up against the monkey’s paw.

Abigail is a writer, performer, and creative in Brooklyn, New York. She recently graduated from Molloy University. She likes digital archives, breaking rules, and mysterious women.