Palm Reading                                                                                                                                                                                                Olivia Martel

                  (or, the self-fulfilling prophecy)

 

 

(left: what the gods gave you)

 

This one belongs to mother

                        hold it in yours, gently, her knuckles, her hands

both harder and softer than yours, slathered in lotion,

callused            from rings and hot glue. Here, the fingertips learned needlepoint

and painting.

            Here, they held rifle stock worn from salt sting of ocean wind, from the boat they

carved through water, past       the riptide, past the rocks to             shore.

            The long, long nails kept neat,              white half moons come to harbor

Far from the swollen heat        of home, they made home here,

made    child, made children, made good.

 

 

(right: what you did with it)

 

This one is for you

the one she gave you    to do what you will

hold the inheritance she built, all gone to waste            in the cold.

Here    you took too much, stayed close to home, afraid to leave her, choked

for sunlight      freckling your skin, unfamiliar with it.             Here skin split             

from picking, here torn            nails with teeth,  nothing         

like swimming, or shooting like her,     you are nothing like

her. You will cut your life        line      short,

ungratefully.