by Mariah Bosch
A man in a powder blue suit
offered to tell me my future
on Olive Avenue. When I tried
to say no, he said Baby, please,
in a way that told me that he
might know something that
I didn’t, so I held out my palm.
I used to hold out the same palm
on the playground for other girls
to read. They would tell me that
I was destined to have five kids
and a loving husband. Maybe a
mini van. They told me my future
with such certainty that it was
difficult not to see some truth,
some sincerity, some genuine
desire to wish a happy future
upon each other. So I believed them.
The man on Olive said he could see
Los Angeles and its sprawl. He
could see me there, too, but he
wouldn’t tell me what I was doing
without another five dollars.
I looked happy, though, he said.
Happy in Los Angeles and
laughing in the sun. There,
in Fresno, I sought to find
an intersection of these futures.