Some sort of haruspex, she claimed she was,
digging through skull-guts for a glimpse into tomorrow.
A quick circuit with the bonesaw, yes,
then she'd lift your head lid, have a poke round,
and soft prognostications would sort of
'come to her', she said.
'I see a whale
straining to rise through a trapdoor
too small for it,' she said.
Bigger trapdoor, I wrote down, enraptured.
'Your denials emerge from a face
smeared with jam.'
Clean face, I wrote.
'A crab sidesteps through your life
at the worst possible time.'
Kill crabs on sight.
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