I don’t know when I realized he had one eye that watched me, alive, the other free to read the heavens. Could he see I grew where others couldn’t? Could he read my face, in its lines all their faces—my aunt’s that morning, in the mirror beside mine, hissed, don’t stare, don’t forget details, it’s your honor to look for all of us. Did he see I hated his eye, sometimes, hated my honor: the hand always above me. Which eye reads that hand? Which eye can judge its weight? I wanted to look away. Wanted to cry. His untethered eye was milky as a teacup. Why have you come here, daughter? Couldn’t say, My father made me. Couldn’t blame, You looked at Her hand, but you didn’t save Her from a firing squad. I wouldn’t confess, I am afraid I’ll spend my life under a hand that I can’t stop or hold. He never touched my palm, imbedded with pencil lead, or the moon under my thumb, scarred while opening a can. He assured me I’d make a fine wife, a fine mother of fine sons, prove to be a credit to my family, while his iris swiveled like a wobbly fan. I made up my mind right then to open my hands—their forked wires, their lines of names and places—take them.