Slant and Bone

The postcard from 2012 has a round, lazy script,

every 'g' looping down like a heavy vine.

I was twenty-four then, and my fingers hadn't slipped

into this cramped and jagged defensive line.

Now, I’m signing a card for a friend’s thirty-fifth,

and my hand is a stutter, a spasm of ink.

The pen feels like a shovel, or a heavy lift,

making me stop and making me think

about where the curves went, why the letters got thin

and sharp as a fence meant to keep people out.

A blue smear of Bic is drying on my skin

where I pressed too hard, full of hurry and doubt.