I was the one whose destiny was poached
eggs. From the tap poured water
the water which tries to face
what face it wants
to face, then decides two bubbles.
In the water’s surface I saw no face I owned
just clear to the bottom
of the pot I felt I could scry
and once a blue agate beat like a heart
as I held it in my hand.
I was once shocked by a crystal
and by a man who shipped a black coffin
from Athabasca to a locality
with two crates of baby chicks destined
for Mitsue—such a strange pairing
this memory stirred by poaching eggs
who need vinegar. The image of the lid
fastened on the crate may be why I help
these eggs to their end, the spinning
water, egg rising from the boiling pot drawn out
by a spider. Eggs I use to tell my fortune
it never makes sense:
purse, bridal dress, cloud, ghost, the dark
chicken smell. I love their cloaks,
the concealment of their glow, that yellow
wrapped up in themselves like an MFA student.
I really feel the food chain stronger when the Moon
is in Cancer. I was desperate to know
where the chickens were headed, and why
the coffin, so diamond-like and inevitable
included me on its journey, I hated signs, kept my eyes
open for the birds, in the end they lost six.