I keep asking the girl with the crystal ball eyes about my
past but she only has questions about my future.
Every single line chiseled into my hands is a dried up river
from cobalt blue dreams and mango colored land. The air is
thick with heavy accents that drift in and out of sleepy ears.
The end of my hand trails off in stitches like war wounds.
The sky is heavy and oil slicked, encrusted with paper lanterns
that lift my heavy head from thick poppy fields to a million
light bulbs in the sky. My right pointer finger maps out 3
children all with heads of thick curls and coffee bean eyes,
but my left ring finger is light and free of any bands of diamonds
or gold. My palms show thick life lines but short and burrowing
deep into layers of muscle and tissue that wipe away any tears
from this life or the last.