What It Does

Four days and I'm still getting it wrong —

the fork, the key, the glass, the way

I reach for things. It doesn't belong

in the front of my mind. But here it stays:

the pinky, left hand, taped to the ring.

A car door. Just a jam. The tape

pulls when I open flat — a sting

isn't the right word. More like the shape

of something I never measured.

Thirty-some years of that finger doing

whatever fingers do, unhurried,

unnoticed. Now I'm reviewing

every grip. The shift key. The edge

of a glass. It's in all of them.

I open my hand. The tape and the wedge

of it pulling. I close it. Then

I open it again.