Methods of Divination

The day after, we begin.

We turn our faces to the cockcrow sky, weigh the wind in our palms, inhale lightning – one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi – and exhale thunder.

We swig and swirl at teas and coffees and wines until our bladders balloon into our diaphragms. We row up the cups and mugs, peer into each one, squint into focus what we need to see: a hammer, a cow, a square, a pine tree.

We buy a sheep and two roosters, pen them in the yellowing backyard. We Google which part are the entrails and throw up a bit in our mouths. We ro-sham-bo after jinxing on not it five times. We put on dark clothing and whet the knife. We stand over them.

We backpedal in unison and drive to the butcher’s, watch her weigh out the chopped liver, examine it briefly before frying it with onion. We declare close enough between bites. We give away the sheep and name the roosters Apollo and Frank.

We excavate urns from the upstairs linen closet. We stand on stools and begin to sift, watching as the ashes pirouette around a late afternoon sunbeam pierced through the drapes like the long shadow of a dying god. We prostrate ourselves on the IKEA rug and look for patterns in Grammie, in Pop-Pop, in Mrs. Tiggles III.

Back in the yard, we slit a sack of wheat grain and scatter the alphabet, wait for Apollo and Frank to spell out our fate. The sun sets orange as they peck AAAAAAAAAA over and over and into the night.

We nod in satisfaction.