She can’t tell you what the letter will say, because
“Nothing is definite—”
Smoke-rimmed eyes, smoke-filled crystal,
The future is
Is she reading your future,
Or your mind?
Her gaze is cloudy,
Her grip cold and clammy; she
Captivates, and what can she see that is so
Bright, miraculous, entrancing—
Dark, ominous, damning?
She speaks in hyphens, stuttering ellipses,
Blinded, all-seeing unseeing and tentatively moving forward,
Impatient, you clear your throat.
You need to see, need to know,
A curiosity that takes you through
Daily horoscope and weather forecast,
Thoth and Athena,
But the powers that be do not favour you yet,
Nor Fate, nor Fortune,
It is time to take matters into your own hands.
At last she
Sits back, majestic, triumphant,
Clouded eyes wide, fingers splayed for dramatic effect,
“Nothing is definite,” she begins,
“But in your distant future—or perhaps—
You leave, pockets emptied,
Doesn’t she know?
Your life is a reckoning.