palm sunday.
Tonight I study
my water hands,
tracing mounds and plains
from the heart line's beginnings
beneath the middle finger,
terminating where mercury
meets outer mars, to the quick
crease of fate lost between
Luna and Venus.
My left hand
lacks a life line.
On the dominant duke,
the depth of my zest
stretches from upper palm
to the grid of my wrist.
I walked this same path
without knowing why
while failing an exam
in the eleventh grade,
lost in a maze of
mathematics.
The soft side streets
of my skin revealed
nothing worth putting
down on paper.