When I drop my niece

on her face, her yowls shake

the house. Her mom swoops in

to scoop her up, finds a fresh welt

swelling. He tossed me high to dance,

she sobs, but dipped me down too fast.

She’s right. My mechanics

are not to be trusted.

Someone taught the child I was

to lift my heart in prayer, not to worry

about precision. So I searched for art

in heaven. I asked earnestly

for daily dread. And got it. Believe it

or not, says the urgent care doc, these tests

let me see your brain. You’re OK.

Later, my niece and I skip around the tree,

spiraling bulbs over evergreen. Ornament

shatter, she discovers, is a bad time

to be barefoot. I do my best

to patch her up. Golf, anyone?

Always, when mired in a pit

of sand, I manage to choose the wrong

club. But fabulous is the subsequent

blast, unfathomable the crater. If the Lord

were to stand at the ruptured junction

of Henry Ford and Stardust.

If the Lord only knew the billion ways

I have held up my arms. Home again

from golf, Guess Who? is the game

she wants to play. And will I please say

just a little more about this Rumpelstiltskin?

I’m thankful she’s not giving up on me.

Others’ friends visit. Somehow, I’m allowed

near their baby. Like me, this newborn is

slightly cross-eyed. He arrived without a corpus

callosum. No one can say what will happen.

I love you bunches, his mother nuzzles.

His dad coos, Yes I do. Why should I need

any forever? The child’s halves could grow

separately: two strangers in an elevator.

Or they could fuse into a whole

new species, complete, one who knows

he’s never been alone.