The Palm-Reading Time

I see me catch the glass bowl

admire my juggling as I stoop

down I go in slow motion

watch the floor break the fall

my hand a fleshy pad between

as the shattering shards spout

geyser gushing blood

my screams make believe

I’ve become

what a banshee might be

I am transformed into it

my impression

has me in stitches

with pain

shrieks from me

I run the white sink water

turning cold red down drain

howls and harsh words

tell myself to shut up

so detached

view the flow of this red river valley

where I predict a yippee-yi-yay emergency

by the palm of my hand

all these new lines

my future crystal

so easy to interpret

this new ability

gift of foresight

a few moments late

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