Zorada Reads the Clown
       

Your hand speaks for you. No luck. No love
but that which comes harshly, resisted—you
drop a pebble in a lake, it ripples lines
back onto your palm. I can read. Look how
your hand trembles in mine, see the outline
of a life. Ovals on heart line mean battle,
but yours, the long road: a romantic! Shall I
show you the girl? Tell me I'm right—you
have few lines but an old soul, she wears life
on her chest. You think your sorrow mound
fatter than hers, your suffering grand, but
you're wrong—you want what can be invented,
she will take what comes. What to do? Come
see me when you lose something. I can find.

Copyright © 2010 Erin Keane All rights reserved
from Death-Defying Acts
WordFarm
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission