Letters, left alone, like bare numerals,
infarct, sew chords into themselves
as a symptom of hunger. No phone, no internet,
almost as tragic as no family. A sea squirt
can rewrite its entire body with just
a fragment of blood vessel, a long vowel,
maybe oo, or even oui. A Ouija board
only points to one letter at a time. Then it
becomes possible to piece together
meaning from a string of swift stops.
But I never ask the planchette
specifically when I will die. And I have
been warned to never touch the plastic disk alone.
They can take over. There have been
isolated instances of plates and shoes
streaking across rooms to strike doors.
Who are they? Are there theys watching
behind a screen for a single fingerpad to graze
the small sliding heart? And why would they
be honest with my future? Would they
see a slideshow of isolated strokes,
peppermint chocolate spilled on the cracked
dashboard, sunscreen smeared after the sand
snapped the vertebrae? Could they read aloud
my whole sentence, spelling out each
f a l l through the veil?
Labiomancy: by lips
My wife wakes at 5:15
and does not make any sound.
At 6:00 I feel the most delicate lips
on my forehead, the brush of air
made by enunciating a silent letter,
deliberately spoken. The kiss music-boxes
cinnamon from my shoulders,
to my intercostals, to the wrapped
bundles of cords and slender
channels of fluid, to the ends
of the articulating digits.
Even though I am not conscious,
I realize that this will be the
best moment of my day,
of any day.
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