Left-Handed

The insurance adjuster wants dates and the names,

so I’m filling the boxes with charcoal and ink.

It’s a slow, steady labor that smudges and tames

the things I’m not ready to actually think.

By the time I have reached the bottom-most line,

my palm is a metallic and dull-shining gray.

A bruise made of lead, a dark-colored sign

of everything I had to rub out today.