A reading

Most propitious, she would announce,
Reading the bitter tea leaves
Nestled in the bottom of my pot.

She read books of poems,
The drawings of her father's friend,
The daily newsprint smudges.

She read the horse's whinnies,
The dog's breathing,
The egg as it rested on the straw.

She read the mud on the hill,
The wind as it ran through the treetops,
The slant of coming rain.

She read the burr in her lover's voice,
The timing of his arrival,
The trajectories of his hands.

She did not read the message her ovaries
Wrote to her uterus,
Telegraphing its urgencies,

Tapping out surgical scissors,
A reverberation through the inner
Libraries of her body.

The haze of anesthesia,
The sudden flash of silver,
The tug of thread went unread.

Now, she looks at the rivulet
Of scar left behind, ebbing from red to white
And smiles. Propitious, she announces.


Written for the word of the day, propitious, at Poem of the Day.