TRANSLATED FATE

​White days, she says, an Arab woman

spelling my future in dark coffee

spilled over a small saucer.

Many white days. Not a word of English.

The owner translates. A hundred dollars,

He laughs, to know more. I shake my head.

Here, a holy place, sacred, you must go

find it, big reward. White days good. Sorrow

too I see here. Scared to know if old or new:

love is not love when it doesn’t tell us

what we were and whom to become.

A bird’s on its way. Welcome it, listen!

My friend across the table, what’s his path?

Your friend has a big, sorry heart.

He’s going away. He must leave soon.

PUBLISHED IN OBERON POETRY 2020 (18th Annual Issue)