My pinkies don’t bend right.
They get locked in place
attempting to navigate space
so they turn introspective,
going inward.

My aunt is a palm reader.
She looked at my lines,
at the small age of nine,
and wisely determined
my destiny.

My right hand is clumsy.
To be a good surgeon
I needed to burgeon
despite my weak faith
and faults.

She’s a rotten apple,
shiny and waxed,
full of appeal.
Peel her up,
and you’ll find
a girl past her prime.

Stormy answers
have haunted
us always.