After I ate a fortune cookie
in a Wyoming restaurant, I read its
prediction: You will never know
the thrill of a busboy. What, is this
a lavish joke? Should I commit
suicide by pills, a bayonet in my
throat, or hack government
web sites and suffer in limbo?
I stole the chopsticks for a souvenir
and called my ex-lover’s husband:
Blink and then stare before you endear
yourself to her, consign yourself
to the pickle factory. I hung up, wired
five dozen roses and a wind chime.
I wonder if humanity forgives itself
for the Holocaust. It shouldn’t.
I wonder if my lover decrypted
the missive. She was a Serbian nanny
without shame who warned my children
about the evils of oil and glue.
Fluttered her eyelashes, made me
kneel in the burning desert. I remember
her power, never forgot it in my hunt.
Soldiers couldn’t track her. She warned
me I had committed an error,
I know I rubbed her the wrong way.
I can’t believe I didn’t check her out.
I can’t believe my dreams are cinders.