The Gray Weight

This gray arm, a stone sleeve,

refuses to bend.

Morning routine, a slow reprieve,

trying to make this body mend.

The sweater snags, a tight fight

over plaster and cotton.

My good hand pulls, with all its might,

against this thing, forgotten

how it used to move.

A smudge, already, from a wall,

a faint line, charcoal on cement.

It feels like I'm wearing a small

tombstone, permanently meant

to be attached.

It hums with a dull ache,

a steady, heavy presence.

Every move I try to make,

it measures its own essence.

A clumsy, forced salute.