The Gypsy Madam of Old Constantinople
Through a dizzying hive of brass and smoke,
I wander into the street bazaar of old Constantinople,
Where the shoes are shined for loose change
And pickpockets plot, selling cheap flowers.
A bear dances on a dog-leash to tambourine songs
Next to a lacquered sign—Futures foretold
For all who have eyes to see! Walking past, I stop
And wonder if there’s an answer there for me.
Ducking low, I enter the dimly lit tent
That smells of wax and rosehips. The Madam sits
Wrapped in a shroud of deep purple thread
And blinking with beady eyes. She beckons me in.
Digging through her bag of dried beans and twigs,
She pulls out an orb the size of an egg.
My dear child, you have one uncommon hand.
She swivels the glass in her hand. Her bony arm
Moves like a dancing cobra head as she inches
Closer, and stares right through my skin.
Tell me now, what do you see within?
My eyes focus on the blurry crystal, glowing
Orange from the flickering burn of a candle.
Squinting hard at the orb, I prepare to see
My lot—of wealth or of trouble, of joy or despair,
Or perhaps even a vision of death, lurking near.
But the light adjusts as the glow fades to grey
And all that remains too see of some fate
Is the reflection of my own familiar face.
