The Silent Partner

The right hand gets to hold the heavy knife,

it gets to sign the checks and wave goodbye.

It’s the one that people want to shake,

the one that looks the world right in the eye.

But my left is the one that holds the onion still,

fingertips tucked back against the steel.

It’s got the white scar from the winter slip,

a jagged line that never quite would heal.

There’s a pale dent where the gold band used to sit,

a ghost of five years spent in steady grip.

It does the work that no one needs to see,

anchoring the life that’s left for me.