The Mystic

Raymond Antrobus

The lightbulb in The Mystic’s
living room is reluctant. The pink 
laminated sofa looks like a fat dick 
in a greasy condom. The Mystic sits

in the deck chair in the middle of the room, 
watching the wide-screen TV. A young 
Tom Hanks in A League of Their Own. 
Rain pellets the windows.

The Mystic’s face is a dark leaf
in a drained swimming pool. I have 
come to her, anxious at 11pm on the day 
I fill out my Green Card application.

I feel like another spoon
in America’s sink. The Mystic 
takes my hand, reads the lines 
on my palm, occasionally looks

up at the TV. Tom Hanks
is smiling. The Mystic says
I will die at 83. A young Tom Hanks 
wears a baseball cap. The Mystic

wears grey socks and sandals. 
The Mystic says someone close 
to me is bitter about our distance. 
Someone older. Someone foreign.

Someone not American. The Mystic
turns her head back to the TV. Tom Hanks 
looks nervous. The Mystic looks 
hypnotised. Something is coming

your way. A good thing. A good good 
thing says The Mystic
to me or Tom Hanks,
leaning back in her chair.