My brother’s hands are fast becoming claws.
The doctor said the nodules were a sign
that he’s inherited a mix of flaws
that made some tendons pull. At 49
they started to compel his hands to curve.
His fingers seemed to aim to make a fist
but hesitate, as if they lost their nerve
at air-embracing talons. He’ll insist
it’s medical — his surgery was botched
and that’s the truth but only part; you see,
I’ve known my brother all his life and watched
the loving strokes he’s borne since infancy
as favorite. Stigmata on each palm
reveal how long he’s longed to throttle Mom.

 
It isn’t true. Of course it isn’t true. And I wouldn’t post it if any of my family read this blog. This came out of a comment I made to A, over lunch at the bar at Tadich. It cracked us up and I just had to write it down.