My brother went to see a fortune teller
who said he would die at the age of twenty-one.
That sharp thorn of thought stuck in my mind.
One day he was riding
a freeway on his motorbike
and the road rearranged his brain.
They patched him up at the hospital
and he walked out with no scars
visible to passers-by.
When he turned twenty-two
I laughed out loud with relief
and hid that thorn in my tin of memorabilia.
One day I took the thorn out of my tin
and showed my mother, laughing as I reminded her of the story
with a frown she said
but he did die, didn’t he.