The Girl With No Hands

Your father asked for more than a polka–dot tie, a self–portrait in Crayola or cinnamon

snickerdoodles flat as candle stubs on baking sheets. He grabbed you by the wrists

and severed your hands to wear on his key chain like a pair of lucky rabbit’s feet.

What is so fortunate about a rabbit hopping about the prairie with a missing limb?

What if all four of its legs had been clipped? It eats only as far as it can stretch

it’s neck, and then rolls itself on its back to perforate its starved belly with the blades

of its ribs. When the hunter returns, the rabbit will have its revenge, looking like

the amputated foot of its diabetic mother wearing that familiar bunny slipper.

Your father seized your hands, not out of malice, but greed —his wish to match

Midas and pocket the small golds of his kingdom — Rolex, wedding bands, crucifix,

and the precious treasure of your rings, which, little princess, will never leave

your fingers because Papi breaks no promises. He never abandoned you either,

always here when you come across your hairbrush, perched on the bristles

like a nesting pecker. Resolute, you age with ingenuity, learning to eat

right off the branch, nibbling apple, apricot, and pear without separating fruit

from stem. This is how you heard about the clever rabbit, from the hunter’s son

who made love to you pressing his fists to the small of his back. He locked you

against the tree trunk and your shoulders splintered the bark. What a miracle

of an instrument, the piano that’s played with elbows and knees and four clumsy

heels that for all their random reaching make the sweetest rhythms. Your bodies

danced each afternoon in the grove while your mother sewed the mysterious

tears in your dresses. You forgave your mother’s inactivity that night when Papi

struck down your wrists with a cleaver, the mirror of the metal like a window

to a furnace, the shadow puppet butterfly emancipated finally. Who knew

chopped bone could sing? Maybe chicken doesn’t utter a note at its beheading

because its mother hen isn’t near to cluck a frenzied requiem, Your mother

squealed as fiercely as a sow and your stumps looked like the blooded snouts

of swine. But all that rage escapes you now as you unleash the power of the hand

your father left intact, and with it grip your lover tighter into you. So this

is delectable defiance, Miss Rabbit — it must have been female to claim

the last word. You, girl, with no hands, can produce another pair and more:

legs, torso, head, and a bear trap of a jaw to bite the hands that feed her.