The love line on my palm is beginning
to tremble.
Best to hide under the desk,
crouch in the doorway,
fight the urge to evacuate.
Do anything except act.
Stand by. Wait.
I tried looking into the future
but my crystal ball has
always been shady, clouded
by the smoke that stuck
to my lungs like the mustard
he always liked on his sandwiches.
*
The head line on my palm has shattered
and is too faint to notice.
We used to line up—
an engineered perfection,
but we have been cracked open
enough times to shift.
Notice me.
Can’t be undone, can’t be unbroken,
like the plates that fell from
our lips and couldn’t be
crazy glued back together.
Some of the pieces were as
small as what we’ve become.
*
The life line on my palm has been
dormant too long,
pulsating constantly under my feet.
It’ll be all my fault
when the foundation finally starts rattling,
and you’ll say,
“This may just be the big one.”
