Oracle
Judith Skillman

In a room full of mothballs
one window holds a snowy scene.
I touch crumpled hats,
finger a roiled taffeta and a dotted Swiss
whose dots stand out in sharp relief,
no longer imaginary, like geometry.
 
Suppose my hunger grows
for more of the soft metal brooches
that were once so useless. A few staples
and straight pins have been left all these years to collect
the sun’s metal light. When I was a child
I thought like a child.
 
Here are the corners holding porcelain
fixtures: bowls of holy water
tinted rose. From inside my body 
I hear the fuzzy sound 
of blood making its rounds, 
prophet of its own demise.