as a tool of divination.
They say your parts can see it all
or near enough to feel like fate.
They’ve read the bones, the liver, the whole of me
and found the omens unfavourable
the future too difficult to determine
so they break me down again
& again to bring me into being in your image.
Perhaps me breathing is the problem
how your shriek, screech, howl
has me wriggling in your mechanical mouth.
Seeing their frustration, I wonder if your seers
ever envy the old prophets
the way a blade made a body
easy to interpret.