My left hand has
done most of the work
for me, built a thick
callous on my middle
finger where rests
the pencil’s bulk.
Decades ago, when
my desk was smaller,
I accidentally stabbed
my own palm. The mark
is still there, a grey dot,
but barely visible. Even
today, I still manage to
hold the pencil wrong.
And you’d think all my
rings would get in the
way. Not really. At least
not when I write. But
I’ve been told when I
use my right to shake
someone else’s hand,
they hurt. They can
cut you down to the
knuckle. Like a warning.
Katherine Mercurio Gotthardt, copyright April 18, 2024, all rights reserved
Posted in Poetry Month 2024
