Here is what you were never meant to know.
Here is the salt of Orion’s bloodlust,
here is the rubble of the tower,
here is the endless dance of the wheel:
There is a way to rearrange the stars,
become masters of our own astrology,
write our fates in cosmic dust.
The gods are brittle.
You, too can move earth and sky,
shape water and spit sea foam
into the shape of the life you most desire.
Become a statue,
content to lounge among the stars forever.
Here is the secret,
pressed close to her breast,
that the psychic will never tell.
Here is the witch’s vice,
here is the magician’s heel.
Rewrite fate in an artificial masterpiece,
an expertly arranged terrarium,
succulents and blossoms encased in glass,
tea leaves to be read with a halfhearted smile.
Foresight renders a crystal ball an ornament;
omniscence makes stars sequins on black cloth.
Scatter our seed to the wind;
maybe we become the breeze
and we end up rooted together in the tall grass.