Poetry by ryn weil
Every year the Oracle comes.
She is made of water, dipped in liquid nitrogen
Snowflakes and particles of ice.
The tiny temptress sits herself in the ribcage of an avatar
Making a throne of their heart, freezing it
We paint them in silver and gold, spread soot on their palms
A line of smoke trickles up their spine
Her words burn their organs
Expel out of hypothermic gold-flaked lips
She speaks to me in my mother’s tongue
Reciting verse of poets and writers long dead
Trying to interpret the sound of snow.
Letters get lost and tear from my lips,
pulled like skin by my teeth.
Chicago streets, broken glass
You’re watching my bare feet with sallow eyes
Jaundiced, liver failing.
Orpheus from the tunnels of the red line
Making the trip down every morning,
Passing the homeless Cerberus
I can’t verify your predator breath
Like a deer
Running through circles of smoke
Avoiding cigarette burns from the tips of fingers.
They tap out their ashes and I keep shifting