Anne Heide edits CAB/NET Magazine out of Boulder, Colorado. Her work has
appeared or is forthcoming in Ambit, 26, Traverse, Small Town, and LVNG.

Omen of Boiling

Behave: you are drying out
and it is already winter.

She will sail to sea in your
eggshells if you don't break them
small enough. She will drown
your husband, softly. And eat
eggs with him.

Close to the pier now be careful
white feet too close together. Stay

barely in sight.

You were at the fire, of course
and he came in, turned your
eggs around and stopped
the wind. This was your
way to know his safety.

The stale shells in
the morning are
glossy and hard.

And you are fevered
because you ate
what the canary
gave you.

Omen of Color

Say too much and never pinked skin, save it for when you hold your breath between stones and flush.

Stay out, out of the grass, don't be greened by the mulch but hold it between your lungs.

Lick your finger, saliva behind your ear. This is the remedy for something. Have you traced it back yet to your mouth? Hold some skin there, fold.

Omen of Clinching

Only because he wants
to be carried in
the folds of your
calves, brown. Allow

him to agree: you
have no sisters and
will never bruise
by touching

them. And one spotted hand
turns up on the chair. This
is where you sit,

quickly. And wasn't there
a pair here, earlier? Who
knew how to stop him
from clasping your legs,

and yes.

Omen of Desperation

Your mother finds

welded together in the
yard, two joined
at the neck.

She knows some
twin ate this
once and this
is why it is in

her back garden. And she'll

think of horses
setting fire
with burning manes
to the yard, like her.

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