In Taipei I saw a man in starched white shirt
and khaki shorts squatting on a concrete curb,
tilting a half-full enamel basin side to side,
rinsing a length of pig intestine—something that
would once have served to divine the unknown.
Holding it in one hand, he pushed a hooked stick
through the viscus to snag and draw the other end
back through itself, as if turning it inside out
could change the future.
Pitching the water into the street, the last drops
blessing the sidewalk, he turned to climb
the ill-lit stairs to his flat to make sausage
or perhaps soup.
Author: John Hicks
The GistJohn Hicks is a narrative poet whose work has been published or accepted for publication by: Valparaiso Poetry Review, I-70 Review, Ekphrastic Review, Glint Literary Journal, Panorama, Mojave River Review, and others. He writes in the high, thin air of northern New Mexico. John didn't send us a good quality photo, so we have used this generic image instead