from Stroke Poems
Halved
is a body left behind
a slow arm fitted with a basic hand
words cased in trembling
Life divides like AD and BC
A brilliant twin keeps beside me
Reading Aloud
Each syllable locked
in an opaque shell
Each word to be jigsawed,
parcelled, stamped
in a wink or flash of the tongue
Like America sometimes
I trick the iambs
or guessmudge my way clear
Warning
Its laws are magic, alogic,
magnifying
each itch and spark.
A cough could snap the neck.
A fall might be
forever.
In the dark
superstitions gather.
Return to Work
1.
The taxi ride took my left-cuff button,
with thumb and obdurate finger
I failed and forced and coaxed it through the too-small
hole in my head.
2.
The velcro under my tongue botches
weather-talk.
Pockets are so
the hand doesn’t hang
when I step up to the high stage of conversation.
The one-two pass of the
“Hi. How are you?”
leaves me clutching the wrapping
of a tattered word.
3.
My southpaw script
of abject shapes,
gaptoothed and barely
twelve months old.
After drafting, I correct
my corrections:
a crisp essay patched
with rickety boards.
4.
I stand near the desk and the handrail of my notes,
my sour smile answered
by a twinkle of whispers.
I open my mouth and wait
for the lesson to begin.
Dear right hand
You were once
chief-gesturer, key-fitter and coin-slotter, pen-judge and contract-signer, note-taker, poem-recorder.
And you are still
the sometimes-lifter, the unlikely bat and racquet wielder, the fist, gripper, stabiliser, the hand-holder and shaker.
One day you’ll be
the board-scribbler, the dexterous-tickler and nappy-changer, the ball-catcher and present-wrapper, the easy gesture and lightest touch.
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