John William Waterhouse [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

John William Waterhouse

She does not see you, your uncertainty,
hesitating on her threshold.
She does not see the room you see
symbols tacked-up,
light leaking round cheap drapes, the crystal
reflecting you both
as if you stood together
peering beneath its surface.
She does not even see the cards
as she lays them out before you
with weary polite precision.
She does not recall the question
you struggled to ask her
through the choking ghost of incense,
the expectation of deception.
She stares at the threads of pattern
stretched on the looming future
and the darkness of your eyes is her lamp.

18th December 2007