The Delphic Oracle
by Anna Alexandra Isacson
There she is stoned again.
Sitting on her diaphanous gown
rocking over the edge of the world
on a three legged stool.
The breath of this place poisons her,
spews from the navel of the earth.
She coughs and spits some blood
dreams of falling into an embrace
of some phantom who would love her.
She knows she will suffer certain death
just like all the others who gave
themselves in service of this state.
that young fuck, Alexander
with mane of curls and lion eyes
bewitched, straddles his horse
clasps his snake headed woman
chained around his neck,
like the many aspirations of his mother.
The oracle and he meet.
She strikes a pose
strums her fingers through
the harp of her undulating hair.
She takes a deep cleansing breath
eyes rolled back in her head
like the Madame Blavatsky,
after an evening of hashish.
Smoke billows and she burns a goat,
throws on some herbs
and smacks laurel leaf like gum.
Dinner for two on the mountaintop,
beneath the stars and columns.
They give the priest the slip.
“I don’t get out much,” she says,
sipping wine from cut crystal.
The oracle throws some dice.
Everything is carved in stone.
They go through the ritual.
“I am God . . . .
I want Persia and the world.”
Such a man!
Her throat becomes Apollo’s,
she spasmodically spells.
She is spent and falls deeper
into a state beyond consciousness.
A priest behind some dark
curtain interprets and lays out the cards
“Thou art invincible my son.”
With eyes closed she sees waves crash
on the shore a boy runs in the distance out of time.
Contact Anna Alexandra Isacson at firstname.lastname@example.org.