Fortune Teller
Only a candlecan illuminate the future.
This caged flame,
threatening conflagration,
sits atop a tiny table.
My palm unfolds
like a roll of parchment,
to be read by a wrinkled haruspex.
You will go away,
you will come back.
You will live with her again,
but it will be different.
In the distance,
the sound of traffic
is the singing of ghosts.
First published in Vox Poetica.
See the magazine page here.
