I took a digital picture of my hand
and sent it away,
emailed to a psychic in West Bend.
At first, it was undeliverable.
Then a suspicious attachment, needs
A third time she replied,
said my palm was fuzzy.
I became her $20 pay pal
and suddenly she had clarity,
a map quest, a maze of intersections.
She saw a scoundrel's name,
Lucy or Cin,
a flamboyant but unremarkable life.
Wrong, I said, that was not my lifeline she was reading,
it must have been a silver hair
caught on the lens as the shutter closed.
But she held firm,
said it was more than just the palm
she read, she knew me, she saw
how my lines crossed with others,
a flash of pain in every touch.
She saw a future as a circus act
or a hit man and I knew she had me,
caught in her sights, that day
I let you fall from my slick palms,
that endless Hitchcock drop,
hands forever clutching,
cliffs of straw and chaff.
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