Shahid Reads His Own Palm
Reginald Dwayne Betts
I come from the cracked hands of men who used
the smoldering ends of blunts to blow shotguns,
men who arranged their lives around the mystery
of the moon breaking a street corner in half.
I come from "Swann Road" written in a child's
slanted block letters across a playground fence,
the orange globe with black stripes in Bishop's left
hand, untethered and rolling to the sideline,
a crowd openmouthed, waiting to see the end
of the sweetest crossover in a Virginia state pen.
I come from Friday night's humid and musty air,
Junk Yard Band cranking in a stolen Bonneville,
a tilted bottle of Wild Irish Rose against my lips
and King Hedley's secret written in the lines of my palm.
I come from beneath a cloud of white smoke, a lit pipe
and the way glass heats rocks into a piece of heaven,
from the weight of nothing in my palm,
a bullet in an unfired snub-nosed revolver.
And every day the small muscles in my finger threaten to pull
a trigger, slight and curved like my woman's eyelashes.
I come from a mixture of renegade and pioneer stock, Both branches escaped to Utah: one found refuge, the other a temporary solution.
Palmists believe your entire future is encoded on the palm of your hand. I've studied my palm, palmistry book open, but haven't been able to ferret out its mysteries. Can my palm really tell me how many marriages I will have, how long a life I will live, if I will travel? I like to think of it rather as a map: here's the roads and highways, now where will you go? what will you choose?
About fifteen years ago, I became casual friends with a local restauranteur. She had recently immigrated from China. When I told her I would never marry or have more children, she grabbed my hand and pointed to the evidence. She predictions were correct. I did marry, and have two more children, (stepchildren).
I had my palm read back in my late twenties. It was ridiculous. The woman got it all wrong. Or perhaps I just refused to listen.
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