“I’ve never seen the sky in California,”
you confessed as we rested on the rug
on my bedroom floor. The electricity
went out and we read each other’s palms.
Nonexistent lifelines led to talk of funerals
and I promised to bury you in pearls.

When I drove you home, the stars acted as pearls
in the night. “It doesn’t look like this in California,”
you admitted. I thought of white lace funerals
and sighed. Later, I fell asleep on my rug
with dreams of coffins and sweaty, pale palms.
I wanted to call you but there was no electricity.

Come morning, they hadn’t fixed the electricity
so I sat on the floor. I counted the pearls
on my necklace and stared at my fleshy palms.
I visited you before realizing that you’d left for California.
I walked back home and collapsed on my rug,
staring at the ceiling and hoping for no funerals.

We met up for one of our teachers’ funerals
years later. It was during the great electricity
crisis. I told you that I had sold the rug
and you pretended to laugh while staring at the pearls
around my neck. I asked about California.
You didn’t reply but glanced at my palms.

We both had short lifelines on our palms
but neither of us mentioned funerals.
“The clouds are different in California,”
you murmured as we passed the electricity
plant. I cursed and gave you my pearls.
You apologized and promised to find my rug.

I knew you wouldn’t find the rug,
and I told you so as we got our palms
read professionally. You returned my pearls
grimly and whispered, “remember our funerals.”
The citywide shortage of electricity
kept us indoors. That night, you left for California.

You wrote in your letters that California wasn’t suffering from the electricity shortage.
You invited me to stay, said that there was space on your rug and we could get our palms read everyday.
I replied only once by sending pearls with the note, “don’t forget the funerals.”