The Point of the Arm

The mirror in the dressing room folded me into three,

showing parts of my frame I don't usually see.

Waiting for the pharmacist to call out my name,

I leaned on the counter and felt the old frame.

There’s a hinge made of bone, sharp and surprisingly thin,

with ashy, gray patches of worn-out skin.

It’s the same jagged angle my father used to lean

on the hood of the truck when the evening went lean.

It looks like a tool that’s been used for too much,

a pivot for lifting, a lever to clutch.

I pulled my sleeve down to cover the sight

of a ghost in my body, showing up in the light.