Jo McDougall

The Good Hand

After a stroke of luck, my son’s left hand 
and arm lie lifeless. He has to remind 
them, wherever he goes, to come along. 
With the good hand he gives his old, strong 

handshake, pulls on his shoes, adjusts his braces, 
cooks, turns pages, touches the bored faces 
of three dogs, struggles with rubber bands, 
writes checks, drives a tractor, harrows and plants. 

He caresses the hair of his two boys and his wife 
and often takes with his good hand, my hand 
or touches my shoulder when I sigh or laugh 
over some loss we both can understand.

(photo by Brian Borland)