The Resemblance of Lopsided Appendages
Every time I start to forget
I was your daughter I look down
at the skew-whiff knobs of my
.
fingers, each wonky digit sprawled
out toward their stubborn
destinations: three spindling
.
to constellations above my head, four
peeking outside the window
at the arrival of a magnetic
.
breeze, the rest angling forward
to things I can’t see yet. Years
later and the sandalwood
.
scent of your seven-pocket vest
has faded. Your tiered and teary
laugh has grown faint. But you
.
are still there when I hand over
a twenty to the lady behind
the register of 7-11, when I point
.
at protest flashing on the news, when
I chop onions, toss them
into a warm beef stew, all the while
.
wondering whether grandma was
right when she said you were watching
from heaven or whether I believe
.
a former lover as he caressed my
hair saying honey, when we dead
we dead. When all that is left of you
.
is the bullheadedness of my
knuckles flaring from the daintiest
of wrists, I don’t know
.
if I understand the science
of inheritance all that much. When
all that is left of a father are ten
.
hardy extensions from two
palms, one will not wonder too long
whether the cap of a ketchup bottle
.
will open, if one’s eyes ever need
to look away, whether one
will ever again be blindsided by touch.