The Pearl

by Derek Godin

Dostoevsky finished the book on time,
under the gun, under the watchful eye of
a bookmaker of a different stripe, threatening
to open another sinkhole that swallows cash.

The great writer and not-so-great gambler
cemented his legend status in part because
he spun the worst possible advice — write what
you know — into a tourniquet, at least once.

The primary motivators are money and fear,
and when both barrels are pressed against
you, just north of the crack of your ass,
a person sweats out the need to be precious.

This is ludocentrism: the croupier spins the pearl,
and it orbits the turret as we do
the Sun, cosmic order and molecular chaos
playing out on polished mahogany and green felt.

When I was a kid, the local parish thought it
would be a good idea to hold a bazaar in the
church parking lot where people could throw
dice and toss loose change at the feet of

Jesus himself. I had a stack of quarters
that became a stack of toonies in no time
at the over/under table and the Crown and Anchor
until I showed my winnings to my mom,

reeking of flat beer, sea pie, and the parental
predestination that foretold a future of broken
fingers and bad checks and yelling at the TV
because someone shanked a field goal to cover.

She warned me of the dangers of mathematics,
and the damage was done: I was jinxed by my own
flesh and blood, lost my couch-cushion bankroll,
and to this day live in fear of my latent degeneracy.

Gambling is inherently cinematic because it
is a machine that generates heartbreak; you mark
your forehead with the ash of the underdog
as soon as the cards have been dealt to you.

You don't play to win, you play to not lose,
to close your eyes and hit on 18 because
for a split second clairvoyance is real
and you're the only oracle at the table.