SYDNEE WAGNER: Two Poems

Palmistry

 

You pressed your palm towards me,

a force of white air smacking my face

in an exasperated sigh

which dares to whisper a name I cannot seem to shed

even in my most desperate metamorphosis

 

The lines of your palm 

read like a mass grave

red as the blood conjured by firing-squad sorcerers 

the soft sloping of arches that mimic

mountain peaks filled with blue ghosts-

My lost Moravia.

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