palmist

You said, “who broke your heart?
You have so many broken lines across your palm.”
I traced them after you,
the tassels, crosses, hatches,
wondering which side’s the beginning,
which the end. Did they start broken or
become it, all these fraying bits of stories
that expose me to the world each time
I open up my hands? Which man is which,
which time is when,
have I lived all yet or, again,
will these abortive lines repeat the question –
who?
Of all the ones who came and left,
did they break lines across my palm
or did the lines break them? No one knows
if our palms write or just record.
Does wind speak in the palm leaves or
do they compose songs for its dance? 
I looked at you, just smiled – a lie.
I didn’t tell you what I knew.
These are a history and a prophecy,
a question coming true,
tangled codons I can’t excise,
roads I never want to choose.
Who broke my heart? Oh, it was him,
and me,
and him,
and next,
it’s you.