Right-Handed

The landlord wanted a drawing.

The radiator is leaking again,

a slow, hot drip onto the floorboards.

I took the yellow pencil,

the one with the chewed end,

but the lead snapped before I could start.

I sat there instead

making a list of things I’ve lost.

The blue scarf. The spare key.

The way my mother used to say my name.

The side of my hand is silver now.

A metallic, oily smudge

where I pressed too hard against the paper.

It looks like armor.

Or like I’m slowly turning into a machine

that doesn't know how to stop

sliding across the page.