Dr. Morbius12

the season is pregnant with                       turtles leaving    the lake to nest, heavybodied,  with red-blue-iridescent dragonflies                                         flitting across the surface            in search of something,     with wildflowers unfolding,                         fanning out from puckered buds     into terse displays.  

love is perched where thoughts of you                          linger. scattered like cast runes. among the fronds,                with sunk, glistening pebbles.      along the sun-fed veins   of flowing water.

        like crinkled paper-glass inside pockets of moss                        that cling to the earth.

        like congealed nectar                     of floating algal blooms                           that are beginning to flourish.

        like the slowly rising timbre of frog-song   that reaches a crescendo              and dissolves into nothingness                            at the slightest                                                       tug.

by Emily Dickinson

The Brain — is wider than the Sky — For — put them side by side — The one the other will contain With ease — and you — beside —

The Brain is deeper than the sea — For — hold them — Blue to Blue — The one the other will absorb — As sponges — Buckets — do —

Carole A. Feuerman

Nude Moran, 2011

Oil on resin

Patch keeps her prophecies in her whiskers. 🔮🐈

She does not speak in thunder or candle smoke like the frauds downtown. No velvet robe. No dramatic music. Just a gray-striped oracle standing barefoot on carpet, staring into a crystal sphere like the universe owes her answers.

Inside the glass ball the world bends strangely. The room folds inward. Your camera becomes a tiny mechanical moon trapped beneath her nose. And Patch studies it all with the grave concentration of an ancient fortune teller reading destiny from spilled tea leaves.

She sees things.

Not the future exactly. Cats are above such linear arrangements.

She sees the 3 a.m. loneliness before you do.

The mornings you will survive by coffee and stubbornness alone.

The unopened grief hidden in junk drawers and old hoodies.

The exact second a human heart begins healing while pretending it isn’t.

For payment, she accepts crinkly receipts, unattended water glasses, and souls lightly seasoned with tuna.