Nine Things About Oracles

first, there is blindness. like the white moon

in her witching sky, this oracle is prone to concealment.

lidless, pearls

scale on her milk-eyes, iridescent, each blink

sharp as an oyster shell.

secondly,

note her childish hands, slimwristed, fair,

ravelling the unseen silk. third is her voice,

keening like a lost hawk,

wild as a rose-wind. fourth, fifth, sixth:

count the nubs of her curving spine, warped

under salt. a sulphurous ocean

blooms in her, firebright anemones cling

to the tight-lipped carapace of her soul, waving

their soft fronds.

seventh is a mystery

as in the deeps of ancient caves she stares

at the blank wall, scratches darkness, weeps.

eighth is a syllable, sibyl-tongue

stuck

to the mouth-roof, breathing

the thick air, sighing go from here,

question the night sky, demand answers of the owls

and rivers, go,

but at the last, the ninth bell

wisdom is lacking. we stagger out,

clutching a small death over our hearts,

snared by a net of tears

but do not learn.