Small Motor Skills

Leo is doing that thing with his thumbs again,

a blur of plastic clicks, the colors finding home

like they were never lost. I used to be the one

with the clever, quick fingers, or I think I was.

I tried to draw him a sparrow on a napkin,

just a few lines to show where the wing tucks in,

but my hand stuttered. It’s a lump with sticks,

a charcoal mess that looks like it’s been hit by a car.

There’s a graphite smudge on the side of my palm,

dark and wide as a bruise. I’ve lost the map

between the brain and the wrist—it’s gone,

the way you forget a locker combination or a face.