Fortune-Telling Parrot
              After Joseph Cornell

Lovesick on stars, I seek a fortune
teller’s counsel, her perched
parrot the color of storm clouds
trailed by flames.
Overhearing another mystic
predict to a sad doll
that her husband
will be friendly
with a mysterious blonde,

I confide in my crystal gazer
the memory of your tongue,
your lips a forbidden
plum, a walk in a city
arboretum, a midday hotel,
books shared
like passion.
She nods, mouth pursed
in a gift’s ribbon,
necklace dangling
bronze tokens. I want to stroke
her bird’s tufted feathers,
its obsidian-in-amber pupils
waxing from
pinhead to full moon.

The woman holds out
her palms
as if to convey that fate
has already launched
an arrow bursting
with golden magic.
Some can cherish
only one soul
while the rest of us
search for the bear
in the northern hemisphere,
Polaris guiding the navigation
of wayward pirate sailors.
Would it be so terrible
for you and me to be banished
into neighboring constellations?
Deep spells of intimacy
then distance
like a rabbit disappearing
in a top hat’s false bottom.

Time cranks the song
of a music box, and I swirl
the given cup, tea leaves
animated by my intuition
like a fan disperses
perfume in an airless
little room.
I see monarch markings,
iron filings
sprinkled along the rim,
an anchor—or upside-down T,
hammer, stray petal
of a fairy wings barrenwort.
I ask, am I the mooring
or is he—or are we both
the swirling sea?
My sybil’s dimples deepen
as she professes
it’s showing what the heart needs
to feel safe and held.

If the future is a checkered
carpet ride toward
a warped mirror,
the present could be
grounding, hot and satisfying
sip by sip,
not overthinking the pull
of gravity.
Though she has said
little, her eyes gleam like
porcelain saucers.
I finish my pimento
sandwich, slip her a tip,
and her parrot’s beak
delicately fetches
me a card, offering a cosmic
souvenir.

This poem was inspired by the Joseph Cornell shadow box referenced in the title, which is housed in the Guggenheim Museum.

Kristen Keckler lives near the Hudson River and has amassed buckets of sea glass washed up on its shores. Her work has appeared in L’Esprit Literary Review, The Argyle, The Disappointed Housewife, StorySouth, Vestal Review, Free State Review, and other journals.