A prophecy (or not)

Last night, I brought myself into the future,
through no effort of my own. I fell asleep

in the middle of driving. No—I fell onto an oracle’s
feet, begging for mercy, but she demanded me

to move on to know. No—I fell into my mother’s
grief, black shoulders shrouded with a thousand

commiserations—her daughter had died on her
trip to Greece. A blow to the bank. Oh. The oracle

shook dice—What are the odds of you surviving
alone? I told her I have never wanted to

know, but she still opened her palm in my face;
the dice were blank. My mind steered me into

an unforeseen crisis: my mother hunched by a freshly
shovelled grave, bones aching as each day passes

her along to death’s open arms. I imagined this
is what dying feels like if you don’t drive yourself

into a tree while young. The oracle tipped
my chin up and smiled, as if to give a cryptic

encouragement—or not. I wanted to ask what she
meant by all this, but she disappeared. I want to know

why I desire to live again, but I have no idea.