The Prophet

My mother treats everything
as an omen.
She will see a
specific book in the
library,
carefully let
it select her, and claim it
to be a message of
prophecy, sent to me in
particular. The rotation of
certain stellular constellations
reveal a story to her
of my future which she
only tells in the company
of me. Not a religious woman,
nor superstitious, she
will tell me of dreams
that she’s had in the
night, perhaps years ago,
perhaps more recently,
and of how they foretold particular
coincidences later in her
life. She does not tell
me these things
because she believes in them or
has a faith loyal to
their meaning. She tells
them because she thinks
I am still twenty-three
when she had just discovered
my fascination with superstition,
deities and religion. She thinks that
by dropping the name of a
god or guru or showing interest
in Buddhist utterances, that
she will not lose me again.
And so her predicted words
Through well-meant lips lose their
Meanings as love foresees loss
growing sweetly into bitterness.

-- Nina Sokol