No Prophecies Left
by Lisa Compo
In the northern rainforests there are bears
they call Spirits.Less like angelsslipped
between rocks with falls— more warm mist
rising and refractedwithin trees. She swallows
fish in the coldwater which douses our world into fractals. Her pawsscrying rivets in tandem with wind chiming pines.Green pillows the earth as if duvet and cotton. The moss and vine
ancient entities. This current could lead youquietly. My handsan owl spotted in dusk. There’s a star between the threeof us. The spirit
bear drifting off in her hammockof ferns. My owl
eating sunlight, spittingout the bones.
I traveled through mist. The forestfloor made
in bioluminescence—larvae and fungi—
compoundeduniverse. The sound of aseascape
in sticks, pocketed last words—I have not asked
for a signsince the dawn
became a pelletof fur and teeth.
How useless in the wilderness holdingopen
my palms. I sleepbeneath canopy
waiting for one toshiver
open. What glows herespeaks
in gentleciphers,slow winks
I mistake for wakingeyes. I whisper,
show me anything—
anything. The salmon carvethe riverinto mountains.
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