After Louise Cotton’s Palmistry and Its Practical Uses
My reason curls around—possibility—the practice

of cheirosophy—the prediction of character as demarcated by the hand—
each line & mark—sparks a meaning that deepens

as the reader traces the heart line towards—Jupiter’s etching.
There is a game I used to play—my pale hands

clasped in fists—held heavy by my thighs—see if you can meddle them apart—
I’m masking a gleaming wonder—light bleeding between

the spaces of my spindly fingers—breaths dampen as the knuckles 
whiten & the fingertips tingle—numb. 
I am going to play this game again—rereading

myself against the yellowed pages of my Mother’s palmistry book—my hands 
spread wide—exposing the left palm—moist with memories—

a long Apollo finger denotes an appreciation of beauty & a tendency to bend 
the truth. My hands are always on the edge—

of conversations—their hushed syllables morph into snarls—hanging for a cliff 
to grip—fortunes aside—the lines of a hand

reveal traces of a more cutting explanation—when Death knocks—a person 
covers their thumbs—inside the fingers & palm.