Palms

The woman in the sixth seat on the left
side of the bus reads a magazine in a language
I've never seen, turns the pages carefully,
focuses on each image, each section of text.
Stops on the centrefold: a series of hands
palms upward, foreign text flowing
around images, lines unfurling to the edges.
Magazine balanced on her lap, she holds both
of her hands upward, palms open as if in prayer
or in preparation for surgery.
And she begins to examine the lines
fingertip to knucklegroove, palmridge to wrist,
searches for the forks that point to prosperity,
tiny pathways to salvation. She studies them all,
head bent forward in anticipation, fingers
curled inward to hold the potential fortune close,
eyes riveted. And me, across the aisle: a voyeur
palms pressed together, sealed with sweat,
willing her to find the lines she seeks.