Across the busy fountain court yard square
That tarot reader’s ship had docked
White knuckle hands halfway clasped
Hovering over cards left undealt
Snapshot memory attempting to capture this scene
The serial killer who stalks his victim prior to the crime
So the after feels more real because of the before
The skeletal honeybee faces being adjusted
Painted and repainted depending on the trend
The tarot reader like a fence post driven into a riverbed
Her hair had changed from what I remembered
Black to gold in the mechanical eye
Or had I just forgotten amidst this bacchanalia
Now she would read my fortune; bathe in this fountain
The oracle’s table had come to rest
Across the court, along the edge
I dove into the current without second thought
Slashing through honeybee bodies
Unnoticed they fell; piles of honeybee shells
And their faces finally ceased to change
My hands fell upon the reader’s table
Red covered hands and white bony knuckles
Two hands held aloft in anticipation
Two hands held aloft by unknown forces
A negative mirror image; some device between us
‘What future would you like today?’
‘I would like to know the purpose of this place’
‘What future would you like today?’
She repeated this simple question until I became impatient
‘Tarot reader, tell me my fortune and what I must do’
‘What future would you like today?’
The mechanical arm sent cards a flight
Separated from their shiply duties
Seagulls diving windless into the desert sand
The fury
The impatience that is both propellant and igniter
Her head was very fragile in the mechanical hands
Red streaks on her golden hair gave premonition
A sea turtle egg carefully hidden by the mother
Found, cracked open, and devoured prematurely
Nourishing my newfound wings
There was that anticlimactic cracking
And the unforeseen amount of turtle fetus contents
Followed by the disappointment that inevitably follows
When nothing changes but the color of the sand below
The party had been put on hold
The bustling square had halted with an unexpected quickness
My actions had an arctic effect on the commotion
The river’s face did not change, but was left frozen
That was the second time the honeybees had taken notice
Of my actions in the fountain courtyard
Only on this second occasion would they hide
Each to their chimney topped honey hive
Leaving me alone with the dead and the sand