Dominant

Three days and the knuckle's still the color

of a bruise that hasn't decided yet—

yellow at the edge, a darker center

where the door caught it clean.

I keep looking at it

the way you look at a word

you've written so many times

it stops meaning anything.

At the pharmacy I tried to sign

and the pen went sideways,

rolled off the counter.

The pharmacist stood there

saying nothing,

which was the correct thing to do.

I used the right hand.

The signature came out like a guess—

like someone who'd only ever heard

their name read aloud to them.