My left-handed niece
She with the siren hair and 
the megawatt smile
Has the same hands (as me)
Square-ish, small-nailed, capable.

Mine are deft on a keyboard
Awkward with a Frisbee
Generous with a pinch or a pat or a
message written on a steamy window.
Tracing hearts are the first to mind
Then my name
Sometimes I carve out a little window
To see what I’m missing
Out there, in the world.

Hers will know
handstands and
harmonicas
Be the holder of rings
from consorts or alma maters.
Trowels, teapots, toggles and tangerines.
I hope
Trapeze and a tow rope
It’s important to know
When to let go.

Keyboards black and white
Frets, certainly.
Fevered foreheads
Gloves woolen.
High fives and peace signs
held high and often
“Cheque, please”
When your lids are closing
and you’ve had enough.

Give and make waves
Ride them too
It’s a long journey
These hands will carry you.

She thinks we’re poisoning her
Through the vents in her room
Surrounded by Jesus and Mary
On the walls
On the dresser
In the books
Held together with elastic bands.

We appreciate
That she no longer writes
His words on the walls
Although it may only be
The wood panelling
That’s stopping her.

Her eyes are clouded
With age
Not rage
Her food must be softened
Whirred.

She wears my old training bras.
There is something weird about that.

No past referred to
It’s like she doesn’t have one.
But I know that it’s been hard
He sold mom’s snowsuit
For a drink.

She’s small and quiet
She eats consommé.
The humbugs are for others
But they don’t come.