TALKING TO MY RIGHT HAND
Deeply etched is my life line, ditto
my head: meaning, comfortable, intelligent,
with the fork on the latter: destined
to employ hand writing. With my heart
line close to the fingers, I’ll never be deceived.
Travel lines must be rubbed off, don’t show,
but take the rascettes like suicide scars
under the wrist: extra criss-cross, sure longevity.
Now the mounts, where prominent, my Jupiter
signals leadership, my Mercury charm;
Mars means energy and Venus must be passion.
The slash across where I slipped protecting myself
is only temporary, leaves a small scar
across my dicey fortune. Enclose the pen now,
grip it tight. Write for your life.