They taught the children to know themselves through fists:

one for the stomach, two for the brain, a list

of five reasons to change a mind, a wish

for power if jabbed in the air although that’s a sign she must

never make. Draw eyes and lips

and a fist becomes a face. She shifts her thumb

and fingers different ways to make it grin

or sing, a perfect O as if an angel hits

a note and holds it whole. A fist is the first step

in a game she likes to play, one, two, three:

rock beats scissors, paper beats rock until another child snaps.

Look what a rock can do! He keeps

her hand flat on the table until she wants to scream.

She knows better than to speak and it’s not as bad

as it seems. Her fists loosen later when she falls asleep,

but her hands still curl as if she is small again, holding

her mother’s neck, her father’s, in the garden of star apples

where everyone first dreams.