Highly commended
Laura Solomon, New Zealand

Pythia Gets the Blues

God, why do I always have to tell you the truth?

High on snake fumes, eyes rolled back in my head,
Head full of fire, prophesy flaming on my tongue,
You consult me on everything from
The personal to the political.

Imagine the responsibility!
What if I get it wrong?
You expect my advice
Before going to war, before founding colonies,
Before planting your fields,
Before proposing to your beloved.

And what do I get in return?
A kick in the head if I'm lucky.

And all those eyes, watching, always watching.
Too many of them, trained on me.

Lying that I'm living beneath my dignity.
I did not ask for it - you put me here.

Take them then, these words,
Burning spheres in my hands.

Fires flicker and die in my eyes.