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.