My mother threw pinches of spilt salt

over her left shoulder, would toss water

that had boiled eggs onto the garden;

crossed knives were swiftly uncrossed on the table.

For good luck: her youngest brother’s signet ring,

its horseshoe worn smooth; the rabbit’s foot

that was her mother’s; a shamrock, four-leaved,

pressed inside her unused missal. 
By small margins, sometimes, we find our way

or lose it. If charms that kiss the hem

of a frowning god, can help, let’s have them.

Secure all mirrors, slip on the horseshoe ring

then with a pinch of salt, plant seeds where

the egg-water fell. Tend what grows there.