i can slowly trace the changes-
the moment she picked up an almanac
and put structure around the future
she was a dead woman

now
assume she is you
her ideas threaded like dreamcatchers
embellished with feathers, beads
that sag their delicate threads

assume she is given bait
that she counts magpies
their cloud white throats a portent
that does not sit well around her neck

assume she will live her life
as these things expect

To me,
you have always been a reflex
as natural as
vomiting, coughing, and sneezing
(albeit more pleasant—
sometimes).
Somewhere in my medulla oblongata,
something
is telling me to love you
but I suppose that something
might be tainted by a ghastly neurological disorder
because this
just isn’t working out.

The only country
where the people do complain
more than it does rain.