The fortune-teller says
she bears good news.
But she is not the Bible.
Nor is she Nietzche’s AntiChrist
There is never good news on her
She talks only of sad partings
and secret grudges
Her crystal ball, a mirror of my sins,
her cards smell like the past
There is never good news on her. No.
But -if she does bear a good report,
of what it could be?
Will she speak of my hero
back from the Crusades,
and the famed chalice he brings?
Humble, Flowing with grace
and absolution ?
Or of the magical turtle,
returned from his travels,
weary but full of stories
and a shell softened
and polished by seawater?
Will it be of the winged boy
I’ve prayed for?
Sent back from above, naked,
beautifully black-feathered
with his quiver of pearls?
Isn’t good news almost always
the glorious shout of an awaited arrival?
Your blunt nose and silver hair
only give you character dear fortune-teller
an air of wisdom, not old age
Never mind the full report.
I need not know whether or not
he’s grown a beard
or lost a leg
or has a patched eye
Tell me now, great fortune-teller:
what is this good news you speak of?
