Offhanded

I hold a glass.

It flies from my hand.

I catch it. Fumble.

It spills over.

            My hands drop

the glass again.

I can explain flying things

as illness that ravaged wrists.

When I grip to shake hands,

now, I do not grip.

When someone grasps hard,

the bones in my hand grind.

I never tell them though. I lift

the wounded hand with the glass

which is half full

                       to sip:

                       water drops—

leap up to—

sprinkle my face.

What should I think,

splashed from below?

My arm has withered over time,

it’s true. I hadn’t noticed until

walking quickly through the house

I run my hand five times into chairs and walls,

as if it isn’t mine but someone else’s

my muscles don’t control. Emaciate

wrist inflamed and bowed. No longer

bends. The whole arm must lift

and my whole body turn.

I don’t care.

Not care, but mind.

                       How should I feel

                       otherwise? I check

the ceiling’s smooth surface. No

cracks, no slow drip

from above. I dry my face.

What wakes me up at 3 am’s

                       invisible but sharp:

                       Pain, you get

around! Clutch me closer

in your grip than any lover,

freeze me life and limb.

To tell the Night the truth

                       is small relief.

                       Sorrow’s not.

Chance baptized me,

and Pain anoints its own

unwilling company.

When morning sun breaks

                       through snow clouds,

                       I see that from

the trees—which guard

my days—a few shriveled

leaves traverse the window.