The Southpaw

The pickle jar lid wouldn't give an inch

no matter how hard I braced my feet.

I looked down at the hand doing the work,

noticing the way the fingers don't meet.

There’s a thin, white line across the joint

where the paring knife slipped years ago.

A permanent map of a Tuesday night

when the blood was surprisingly slow.

My ring finger tilts to the side like a reed,

a little bit crooked, a little bit spent.

It’s the hand that does all the holding now,

showing the places where it finally bent.