Oracle Voices

I’m Imagining a place where we make sense - the hot-chocolate safe-house where we’ll tongue wrestle, watch Gossip Girl reruns and cuddle - sustained by love and Cinnamon Life cereal. This dark, coffin-like clock in the corner whirrs, mechanically. Suddenly a little yellow-clock-bird bursts, jumping-jack-like, through a tiny door on a blue, tongue-suppressor diving board. “Cuckoo!” it shrieks, to mock me. “Shut up!” I say defensively but it repeats, “Cuckoo!” like an oracle - an unfeeling instrument of adult logic.