Fortune Teller

Let me pull your soul from your warm sinews
and taffy-wrap them around this orb
of fascist truth.

The lines hewn into your map reveal guilt and barrows
mounded with bitch-clique treasure,
and its arrows.

What hope do you crave?

My mother taught me everything.
Her opal eyes could boil
chicken soup.

Everything smelled of worms and wood
and drawer grit.
No allusions to my gift.

Let my salted fingerbones track
your desert dreams
of ice-cream.

You will meet a dark handsome stranger
with a scythe.

Need to know more?

Why?

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.