“Were you an only child?” she asks.
‘No, but you’ve always favored the dreamer,
the star pitcher who writes novels,
the prophet with the red armband,
the low notes of the piano,
the swimmer against the stream.

You learned the truth early, that handles
are on the other side,
that doors are hinged to slow your entrance
and gloves and gadgets are made for others,
but you know that the ancient tools—
jugs, spoons, hammers, rakes—
care only about your opposable thumb.

It’s your birthright, the extra effort
you’ve secretly come to love.
“Left, left,” the drill sergeant stutters,
and you smile like one of the chosen.
You push the reluctant ballpoint
forward, while the letters wave back,
and taste the word sinister on your tongue.
How enchanting it is, so sensuous,
the song of a mermaid with two left arms.