Scrying

By Divya Mehrish from New York, USA

We seek ourselves in the blue of reflection:

the way flames flit across our eyeless

faces like dying butterflies, wings wilted

by the limelight. The cracks in our bodies echo

the fissures of the rusting earth: veined

without warning. Tell me, what blood flows

through your blood -less body? Soften

your chest so I may peel apart your ribs,

slurping your ichor like ambrosia—

sweet until I forget I am allowed to die.

Moonlight is catching; caught in the jaws

of arched windows. We bid the sun goodnight with palms

ignorant of the adagio music of curved rims.

If we try hard enough, we can make anything

sing. Let us hold ourselves in balance:

stacked and straight and tall— look ahead,

and you won’t get lost in yourself. I turn

away from you to shield my eyes from the scalding

shadows, but not before I catch a pearl

of salt dripping delicately down, clinging

to the bottom of your eyelid. Sorrow is corrosive,

you know. You should remember: already,

you’ve lost your gut to self-erosion.

Gaze into the cerulean depths of the scrying bowl

and watch your own image shudder

in wet agony. There, there you may find yourself.

Featured photo by Bogdan Dirică from Pexels