They're mine now

I always noticed my mother's hands    
soft after dish-doing    
nails clean    
rounded
filed    
elegant
albeit bony
hands    
whose fingers tapered to classic pin-up points.    
   
I thought about them on her birthday    
and when she drummed tips on the table;    
that reminded me of horses.    
I thought about them    
flecked with oil paint saved from college art classes    
their ironic, clumsy handling of piano keys    
because she always wanted to play -    
They fit perfectly    
firm on my small-enough cheeks    
and twisted gracefully through it    
even jolting me down the hall    
by my light, long hair    
   
and she sang me to sleep with free verse    
stroking my hairline    
whilst praying God keep me.    
   
But, I got my father's hands    
square palms, cracked knuckles    
flat, even fingertips and bit-down nails    
gawkish hands    
covered in secrets and silence and tolerance    
same as my brother.    
   
And I never thought much about my old man's hands    
or how, even though we missed each others' lives    
we layed framework    
for the same lust for life stories    
brick by bloodshot brick    
just like I'd always wanted    
when searching through my super spyglass    
the wrong way 'round.    
   
And he's really    
really gone now.    
But his rope is here.    
I found it yesterday    
lying dead in my hands.