The Woman with No Arms

In church she sits front and right of me.
My eyes drift toward her despite my better
intentions.  Her sundress reveals the vulnerable
bareness of shoulder leading into breast.

She gazes at the boyfriend with longing
as thouh he’s the sun, moon and stars.
I imagine she wraps her legs around him
as she would arms.

Her hair is still wet from the shower
and I try to picture how she shampoos,
opens a door, feeds herself.

Home, I Google “coping with no hands”
and find happy people using their feet
in unimaginable ways.

In the pool, an armless moter swims
with her armless son
their bodies undulating like otters.
With a bright face, the boy
says he can do most anything he wants.

Did she choose this incarnation?
Do we each choose our fundmental wounds
and then 
go on from there?