She says my lifeline is short and forked.
I will die soon. In a car wreck on the way home,
I scream into the palmist's face
whose eyes are lined in blue and wrinkles,
but she won't stop reading my hand.
I feel like the new bestseller.
A hardback. Crisp spine. The smell of a press.
Needless to say, I didn’t die,
but the palmist did. A week later.
I read about it in the paper.
Famous Palmist Dies on Hands.
Scanning the lines of a man,
she’d never met before,
she dropped her head into the cup of his hands
just after tracing a deep headline
on his right palm and letting him know
he was creative and rather astute.
I didn’t attend her funeral
because I wasn’t too happy
with the news she gave me
of my palm. All my lines are broken
and shallow. This cannot be a good thing.
And the only thing she said between
her tracing my marks with her fingers in silence is
Your palm is a complicated roadmap, and I am lost.