Nov/Dec 2020 • Vol. XLII No. 6 Poetry |

Oracle

It was something about dying she was saying, But her words were lost in the high wind. So We went inside. All my life I’ve tried to resist Ideas of destiny, fixed stars, fate. But it keeps Showing up for all of us, given that our lives Are mostly distraction. For some it was instinct To live by superstition. Quit speaking in riddles, I cried — is that just the way the fortune cookie crumbles? You will grow into a cynic, having once believed that everything was holy. Cynic, I sat before her as she read the barrista swirls in Her coffee. She said that the future keeps adapting Itself to all of our fears. She spoke of the coming war Fire-hand to fire-hand, among creatures. The poems Of all poets mean nothing, she said, because they Mean everything. See that spider high up there Encircling us in invisibility? She has a life worth Defending too. She knows what’s coming in the door. Look at his eyes: locked, loaded with ammo. Fidgeting in line to order up his Americana. Grande o

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It was something about dying she was saying, But her words were lost in the high wind. So We went inside. All my life I’ve tried to resist Ideas of […]

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It was something about dying she was saying, But her words were lost in the high wind. So We went inside. All my life I’ve tried to resist Ideas of […]

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