To The Palm Reader

what do you see?

do you see the wrinkles

from the grasp I held around my father's back

as he carried me home?

can you discern the number of times

I’ve held a lover's hand

or balled a fist in anger

did you notice the scar

where a firecracker lost it’s cool?

how about the calluses

from all the poems I halfway finished?

can you feel the weight

of the grief I’ve carried with these two hands?

It’s grown so heavy,

but no one ever sees it.

can you?