William Welch

THE ORACLE

“You will be fortunate in everything you do,”
that’s what the pair of green ceramic frogs tell me

every time I stand at my kitchen sink washing dishes.
Over and over, I read that pick-me-up written with blue text

on a slip of water-stained paper, a relic from some forgotten  
Chinese takeout I put there between the frogs for the kitsch

and the encouragement…While I’m stuck doing the inevitable
chores, those two little frogs, purchased at ten cents a piece in a thrift store

because they reminded me of the fat, open-mouthed toad
my grandmother kept steel wool in at her sink,

in her kitchen, next to the Ivory soap and the Comet,
those two little frogs deliver pep-talks and oracles—

“You always focus on the wrong things,” they say,
sometimes in my grandmother’s voice. “You complain

because every day, these dishes return, covered with sudsy water.
It seems like they spend more time here than in the cupboards,

and this trial is the quintessential part of being human—
this repetition of the tedious and excruciating…

To us, the closest you ever will come to impartial observers,
it’s obvious you are more comfortable with drudgery

than with serendipity. It’s clear you have made a pact
with sadness, agreeing that there is nothing new

under the sun, all is vanity
in the old sense—vanity, emptiness…

But why not think instead of the food
that was steaming on these plates half an hour ago,

and how proud you were of what you made—
home-grown kale, onions, tomatoes, fresh sage…

I don’t know what I did! you exclaimed between mouthfuls,
and sips of wine, as you often do when you’re happy,

and have some inkling of just how fortunate you are.
Before you start faulting yourself because

you didn’t measure the salt and fennel, or take any notice
of the infinitesimal changes taking place around you.

No, it’s easier to stand at the sink pretending you are a condemned man
than to admit your fear—that these rare and spontaneous

afternoons, when everything seems to coalesce,
when even the plates and silverware seem united in a conspiracy

to bring you gladness, will never happen again… Ah, mortal,
it’s not good when the mass-manufactured figurines

on your windowsill can value your fate, but you take this life for granted…”
On and on they talk, and I have to listen until the last dish

is dry, the last fork clean and ready for tomorrow’s meal.
I want to deny any similarity between them and my grandmother, 

who was a quiet woman, almost totally deaf. When she spoke,
she was to the point and factual, although she had one or two parables

she lived by, about being grateful, about mindfulness.
Your nagging is my punishment, I almost say to the frogs,

but that thought alone feels like a slap across my grandmother’s face.

William Welch lives in Utica, NY where he works as a registered nurse. His poetry has appeared in various journals, including Little Patuxent Review, Stone Canoe, Rust+Moth, and Cider Press Review, and his collection Adding Saffron (Finishing Line Press) is forthcoming in 2025. He edits Doubly Mad (doublymad.org.) Find more about him on his website, williamfwelch.com.