Consulting the Runes

We are hunched, afraid,

waiting for the shaman

with his celluloid pictures

that show the insides,

but nobody’s soul.

He comes with confidence

armed with a stethoscope

and invulnerability.

Armoured by … what?

Indifference?

One of us is sick,

but I am nauseous.

It is not I who

has the beast inside,

growing and malignant

All the facts and figures

probability and percentages

fly in one ear and straight

to my bowels, loosened

by fear and rage.

I make a joke,

nobody laughs,

not even the shaman

or his blue-clad handmaiden.