Prophets
Her pivot is her globe:
it sits between us, a gem
of unbubbled glass swirled
in transluscent reflections.
Her hoops are for show:
I show her a palm, pin
my eyes to her pulled lobe
as she seeks secrets in lines.
My lode is her creased face:
matching gulleys channel anger
from the nip of her nose up -
botox could veil her pain.
"I can see money," she says:
I can see addictions etched
in her jaundiced fingers
as they stroke my wrist.
We thank each other, sip
at thin china, guess weather.
As I leave, I see patterns
in clouds: ill omens in greys.
Her pivot is her globe:
it sits between us, a gem
of unbubbled glass swirled
in transluscent reflections.
Her hoops are for show:
I show her a palm, pin
my eyes to her pulled lobe
as she seeks secrets in lines.
My lode is her creased face:
matching gulleys channel anger
from the nip of her nose up -
botox could veil her pain.
"I can see money," she says:
I can see addictions etched
in her jaundiced fingers
as they stroke my wrist.
We thank each other, sip
at thin china, guess weather.
As I leave, I see patterns
in clouds: ill omens in greys.
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