The Palm-Reader Says

To sip out of a cup
of chamomile tea,
the palm-reader lets go of my hand
and judges
with no effort
from the externals alone,
flailing her words:
"Rest, put your feet up.
It doesn’t look so bad.
Your mind, in its strange way,
creates invisible
worlds inside hard rocks.
Now, remember what
Madame Rosa says
and hold on
to your good fortune.”

Her distorted gaze
stays with me,
in hidden splinters,
and scorpion
stings inside
her phrases.

She says to keep
what’s mine,
behind the white
picket fence,
--like dragon’s teeth--
to welcome back
a man who,
feeling weary with familiarity,
looks away--
a hopeless sign--
a reminder of things unspoken,
as if there is
only a half-life
with no choice.

Why would I nail myself
on her chopping-block,
if love could be
fire-retardant
like my flannel pajamas,
splashed in prints of daisies,
rich against my skin,
warm, cuddly,
trouble-free to wear,
ignoring what's
concealed underneath?