Divination, by Tonya Eberhard

Fragile fall, night comes on so early.
Sets on slow, like ink spreading through water.

November of rotten pumpkins,
obsessive compulsive ritual prayers.

Moving her pottery from kiln
to garage. Thick bowls, decorative leaves of clay.

Tamed wet earth and air, its shape birthed in
dizzying turns by a pumping petal.

Precision, conciseness in creation.
How lovely to think everyone is made this way.

Last bowl lifted by thin arms.
How curious, staring into its endless depths.

Wait—here is what is seen.
Two separate shadows merging into one, bold black

spreading to form a gallows tree.
Tasting a spoonful of stars from a soup ladle.

Then smoke, thunderous crack of a gun.
The last supper splitting into stone halves.

Sheets twisted into ropes of wrinkled skin,
umbilical cord of sleep.

Arms outstretched, beckoning a figure to
dive from a cliff. Jump, I will catch you.

Thin fingers from thin arms startle,
beginning to silently count, tapping the index finger.

A prayer to the patron saint of repetition,
a signing of the cross against all evil.


Tonya Eberhard recently graduated from the University of Missouri. She currently lives in Minnesota. Her work has appeared in Algebra of OwlsThe Commonline JournalDirty ChaiYellow Chair ReviewOpen Minds Quarterly, and many others.

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Posted on December 21, 2016, in Issue 19: Speculative Poetry and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 1 Comment.

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