Nail Technician as Palm Reader Poem by Warsan Shire

The nail technician pushes my cuticles
back, turns my hand over,
stretches the skin on my palm
and says I see your daughters
and their daughters.

That night, in a dream, the first girl emerges
from a slit in my stomach. The scar heals
into a smile. The man I love pulls the stitches out
with his fingernails. We leave black sutures
curling on the side of the bath.

I wake as the second girl crawls
head first up my throat—
a flower, blossoming
out of the hole in my face.