At the corner café I split a fortune cookie—

its brittle breath scattering crumbs across Laminex.

The slip inside, pale as a peeled tongue,

offered a promise I had no business keeping.

Outside, the streetlight stuttered like a star in retreat,

and a child laughed at shadows chasing her soles.

I thought of gardens sealed, of wells silting over,

of how even sweetness carries the aftertaste of ruin.

The waiter poured water, clear and indifferent.

In its surface: a grin too ancient to name.

I folded the fortune, tucked it deep—

as if concealment could unwrite the script.

Still the night proceeded,

ordinary, unadorned—

except for the crack’s residue,

the cookie’s brittle canticle,

reminding me:

even the smallest break

can sing what was hidden.

.