My knees were always grass stained
in the springtime.
Crawling through my backyard in search of
a four leaf clover ruined more pairs of khaki pants
than blades of grass I crushed
beneath my hands.

I couldn’t decide if
I would keep it pressed between pages of a book,
or at the bottom of a small glass jar,
but wherever it rested,
I would take it wherever I went
so my luck would always be with me.

One leaf for my mother, one leaf for my dad,
one leaf for my brother, and one leaf for my head.

A four leaf clover
was never uprooted by my dirty hands,
and I used to think I was born to be
a luckless child. But if
a four leaf clover rested in my dirty hands,
it would wilt, as would
the promises it never made to me.