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Periaktoi Writing Post

Volume 50
Issue 1

Single Visual Art Post

  • Poetry
Love//Lines//Life//Lines & 3 More
Rose Dallimore

Tracing spontaneous, broken lines,

which cut jaggedly across your palm,

this gypsy woman can expertly index

what situations you'll end up in the middle

of, and who might just put a ring

on your untouched third finger.


The gypsy fortune-teller will put her fingers

on precisely the problems in your life and love lines.

She slowly spins her gaudy silver ring

and asks you to please palm

over money so she may be the middle-

man between you and the spiritual index.


You hand over the cash carefully, with index

finger and thumb. She snatches it from your fingers.

You think perhaps you're in the middle

of some shady, questionable lines

of action, but then she grabs your palm

and the brass gong beside you rings.


This medium examines from your ring

finger down to the wrist, to form an index

of premonitions about what she sees in your palm.

Suddenly, she gasps, looking at your fingers.

She shouts, "They say what you will do, monster! The lines!"

She stands up and flips you the middle.


She stormed out right in the middle

of reading your fortune! This ring

of fortune-telling gypsies seems as crooked as lines

drawn by a toddler! Your anger index

is now growing bigger than a giant's fingers.

But now you start to wonder what she read in your palm.


You begin to worry and your palm

sweats, and you're shaken to the middle

of your bones. You wring your fingers

and fiddle with your rings,

and consider what ominous index

of predictions lies in your lines.


Beware what reality from your palm may ring,

for from your middle finger to your index,

the gypsy fortune-teller reads your fingers and your truthful lines.


Young Joints


her graceful hand, more fragile than the rain,

like a call to the angry heavens above,

more melancholy than an artist's pain,

holds soft. yet tightly. onto twisted love.


her nails are crescents like the hiding moon,

her thin fingers are lavender and thyme,

with joints that know no work and are immune

to this mad world's evil prime-time war-crimes.


she cages all her laughter in her heart,

keeps a sophisticated look always,

but palms tell truths when lips don't ever part;

those hands don't have to beg or even pray.


un-calloused, innocent and fortunate:

she bangs her fists in nonsense and regret.

Anatomical Position and the Hand of God

a few bones sit alone,

supine and absent.

they can not pivot.

they can not extend.

so what happened to the Hand?

where has It gone?

the Hand from above,

uncolored and regardless.

oh well.

look over your shoulder

and recall.

wrap your arms around yourself

and then reach upward;

can you feel the Nerve?

feel hard enough,

starting with that little finger

and your thumb.

the bones will come alive.

Source: The Anatomy Coloring Book, by Wynn Kapit and Lawrence Elson

The Arms of Nirvana

His quietly dangling hand

seemed as if every joint

of his every finger

spoke of, breathed of,

glistened of truth.

Ah, but nothing could be

achieved by killing the random

self, because that high, bright

state of being awake

had slowly become a memory,

but he had learned

the truth of forgetfulness.

He was truthful down

to the gesture of his

last finger:


he was lost.

Source: Siddhartha, by Hermann Hesse