for Michelle Rummel
She counts her blessings
within the lines of her palm.
Length, she'd heard once, has
nothing to do with living close
to the edge. Her heart's line
ends in a thick knot of branches,
and her head line, extending far
beyond the middle of her painter's
palm, pays a ransom to ambition.
She quarrels with all the tiny nicks
the reader finds, some indivisible
number she discovered could be
used to retrace the ground already
covered in that wide smooth stretch
between thumb and index finger.
Her life line starts high enough
but just before the gentle curve
above the wrist she spies the chains
invisible to others whose own
break at the forks on their hands
or double up like devoted soul
mates. Deep in the center of her
self unseen lies fate's sinuous slant,
and there, on the side underneath
the pinky, two long love marks.
Intuition's prominence tells her
nothing more about the three
bracelets her reader sees, or
the many places she'll travel,
where a crescent moon lingers —
her lover's shield, her Girdle of Venus.
© 2012 Maureen E. Doallas