I’m not left-handed,
But I wear my watch on my right.
And people always say,
“A lefty, eh?”
like they’ve uncovered my secret—
aren’t they observant?
But what they don’t know
Or fail to see
Are the scars on that arm—
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven—
The graffiti pain scrawled across my skin
“I was here.”
So long ago you’d think the details might be fuzzy,
That bone was split
(to say “I broke my arm” implies complicity, intent)
and, like the shriveled root
of some poor upturned tree,
protruded, jagged, from my skin.
And yet a mystery occurred:
In time, the jigsaw pieces
Of nerve and vein and bone
Fused back in seamless functionality,
As though their time exposed to air
Had no effect at all.
Except, of course,
That living tissue showing death,
A tattooed monument
My coat of arms.