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Dead Metaphor: The Number Thirteen
- Red Hen Press
- Chapter
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91 dead metaphOr: the number thirteen Triskaidekaphobe, triskaidekaphile, let’s call the whole thing off. But you can’t, can you? Thirteenth day of every worrisome month, thirteen rungs of the ladder you’ve no choice but slip beneath. Black cat high-assing thirteen steps across the fateful highway you’ve just entered. Scratch your neck thirteen times and feel the wooly noose. Call it baker’s dozen of gloom and get on with it. A relief, really, this controlling chance at work explanation for all your considerable luck, all bad. Perhaps with a lifetime’s practice, ten incantations plus tongues of toad (three), or the right number (any notion?) of runes asymmetrical inside thirteen ecstatic candles, you can forward the fun to your best enemy. But no, here he is now at the head of table, clinking crystal as you’re ushered in for the finale: Twelve seated and you’re number guess what? Happy 39th birthday (13 + 13 + etc. . . .) to you. Chorus well-deserved, guy. Last Supper indeed. ...