Tasseomancy
Karen Craigo
My toddler likes to share
my coffee. He picks up the cup
and drinks deeply, and I hear
his throat work, the smack
of his lips. This morning
we’re down to the dregs
and he pulls the cup away,
grounds speckling his lips.
We share a future, and some
would say we can read it
at the bottom of our mug.
To do it, you start at the rim
then peer lower to the base,
the far future. Flying things
are a good omen — a kite
and our wishes come true,
a bird in flight, good news.
For as long as we’ve drunk
we’ve thirsted to know
what the future holds.
But there is much to be said
for the present as we stare
into the vessel, close enough
to smell the other’s breath.