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.
1 May 2014