Marietta McGregor
Portent
The first time I ever use chopsticks is on a date. At a restaurant in Chinatown. The scruffy end. Up steep stairs. A lion gate with red lanterns, gilded dragons and snarly luck dogs. Fortune cookies after our meal. I don’t crack mine. Don’t want to know. He laughs. Says he can predict right then what I’m headed for. Stabs his chopsticks into his left-over rice. They lean at odd angles like winter stumps. Side eyes from diners at other tables. Whispering, looking away. After we break up, I ask a friend about the chopsticks thing. Sticking chopsticks upright in your rice bowl is disrespectful, she says. You curse those at your table. It means death.
epitaph
another door
closes
About the Author
Retired science journalist Marietta McGregor has won international awards for haiku, haiga, and haibun. Her work has appeared in Red Moon Press and other anthologies and on Japanese TV. She served on the inaugural panel for the Haiku Foundation’s Touchstone Awards for Individual Haibun. From home in Canberra, Australia, she enjoys visiting the coast and the bush.