The Wedding Prophet

Inhale the tempest balanced in your tea cup.
Burn in the kettle’s steam as you open

a love letter meant for someone else,
lick it shut.      Touch the portent

in the tea leaves, the frilled gills of wonder
on the belly of a mushroom.

You might be the next Cassandra
living in Schenectady             New York.

Snow crackles outside your door at night,
melts with its own motion.

Cassandra might have lied to save her life
but there is no escaping the frog beneath the prince.

You will become her—
everyone will think you mad

as you set your teeth to the edge of the cup,
hear the hem of your wedding dress whisper.

published in Eclipse

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