Sibyl

Let me read your palm.
Your left hand, please
held out and pointed slightly downwards.
Relax.

This line
the sickle cutting from forefinger to knuckle
that's your love line.
Here's your past
the weak, intersecting lines that branch out and fade.
Here's the present and future
the deeply anchored groove is us
of course.

This line
splitting the well of the palm
that's your health line.
Here's where you were sick as a child
and missed so much school
that circle is the terrible cold you had last winter
when I kept you bundled in the comforter
and fed you chicken soup with dumplings
from the Polish deli down the street.

This line
is your life line.
It's a good, strong life
that plows about the base of your thumb
then eases off uncertainly toward the notch
between thumb and first finger.
All those baby albums
the souvenirs from our trips together
the ticket stubs, the concert programs
the more we collect together the deeper
that line becomes.
I guarantee it.

What do you mean, I make it up
as I go?

Of course I do.
But I enjoy stroking your palm
with the tips of my fingers.

--Vance Briceland

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