LAST DAY OF PROPHECY SEASON

By: Christy Wise

I

Dawn breaks late. Grass dormant, Winter stones,

cold. Delphi’s summer heat, evanescent.

Pythia brews tea, walks at a deliberate

pace, wraps herself in violet shawl and slippers.

She dreads the icy, hard tripod, her daylong perch

on this last day of prophecy season.

Gilded brass, all show. Faux finery. If their worship

were true, her seat would be padded, covered with Egyptian linen.

Many of Pythia’s attendants are gone Apollo’s chariot is packed,

ready for his summer frolic among the Hyperboreans.

Voices carry across chilled air. Pythia sips mountain tea,

eyes close, insides warm. She sets the pace.

II

Hey, man, whose idea was this? Pay drachmas, climb

this craggy path in frozen daybreak to listen -- to what?

A crazy woman on a bronze tripod offer

predictions? As if she knows, as if anyone knows.

Charade. And everyone plays along. If I don’t,

my reputation tarnishes. What this money could buy,

makes me cry. Instead: expensive ambiguities.

Your future could be this, possibly that.

Pick one lady. Earn your bribe. People shove,

yell, barter for a place in front. I hope time

runs out before I reach the top. I’ll take my offering,

buy a warm jacket, drink sweet wine.

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Christy Wise is a poet, essayist, author and education equity advocate. Her poems have appeared in Evening Street Press, Anthem, and The Raven’s Perch, among others. Christy is co-author of “A Mouthful of Rivets: Women at Work in World War II.” Her essay “Memory Book” was a notable essay in Best American Essays 2010. Christy holds an MFA in Poetry from Sierra Nevada University. She feels most at home walking along the Pacific Ocean and hiking in Desolation Wilderness.