Plaster Memory

That blue cast, bright as a toy,

on the boy's small arm,

pushing the grocery cart,

awkward, off-kilter.

It brought it back, the dull,

chalky weight,

the way your shirt sleeve

wouldn't fit,

the phantom itch beneath

the plaster,

a landscape you couldn't reach.

The way a door handle

felt too big,

a coffee cup too heavy.

A constant calculation

of what the other hand

could manage, alone.

The world shrinks,

then slowly, slowly grows

back to its true size,

leaving only a memory

of that stiff, white absence,

like a ghost limb.