Right-handed graphite

The pencil feels heavy, foreign

between my fingers—right hand fumbling,

lines that should be sure, instead hesitate.

Graphite drags, stutters, a hesitant echo

of years unused and forgotten.

Marks smudge, unsure and raw,

blurring edges where certainty should be.

My right hand draws like a stranger,

clumsy against the white, a quiet fight.

I’m learning old things are strange new things,

and trust is a sketch I can’t quite finish.