Reader of Palms

You told me you saw your first ghost at 7;
your grandfather’s shadow
whispered on the wall,
on the evening he forgot to inhale –

Eyes wide with worship,
as I watched steam coil over your espresso;
for this steam was surely a ghost, too.

After all of our visits,
I turn off the lights,
sit alone for hours,
eyes shut so tight it wrinkles my nose,
praying
that when I open them,
I might make a friend with death.

I walk through the old-growth,
scouring for fallen twigs,
matter – to craft a wand
crowned with the crystal
I had secretly borrowed from your collection –
just to bring back the mice
my cat leaves dead on my carpet.

I have yet to resurrect,
even a spider.

I’ve sat with you,
my palms extended
in candle-lit corners of this world,
always studying your face
so intently – for any reason to doubt you;
but I have found no flaws.