They write
	prophecies;
folded slips of paper creased in cookies
and the bicycle man delivers them
to our motel room
where we sit, three.

We crack them open to read:
numbers (
7, 
13, 
33) and fortunes (
prayers answered,
success in business,
love).

Momma folds hers and
taps our hands; "Save it 
for after or spoil your 
dinner."

My older sister takes her success in business,
My mother--her love,
and my prayers I take
	answered,
fortunes waiting by the rice.

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