Palmist (2)

I almost took off my ring
before stepping into her kitchen,
(…fat girl, you’ll find love—
too easy. If she said that, I’d know
she wasn’t for real.)
but there was an imprint I couldn’t rub away.

She told me that he loves me so much.
Risky, maybe, but there were no clues
to tell otherwise. No bruises.
I didn’t have wrinkles from frowning.
(Or maybe that was a calculated risk:
if you found someone to marry you,
he must really love you.)

She asked if there was a specific question. I said no.
There was no empty finger to give it away, but she knew.
With a reassuring pat: you’ll get pregnant again soon.

Earlier that year, after we left the ER, I asked Mike
if we were enough, if just the two
of us was enough.
I knew it wasn’t going to happen again.

When I went back to the ladies chattering
in the living room and they asked what she said,
I left out the pregnancy part.
How could I answer no?
Did we want to be?
I didn’t know.