Issue Thirty-Three - Winter 2019


By Kristin LaFollette

but not really.
When you have no choice,
you can make your body do
almost anything.

With my right hand shoved
into a ball glove, I can
barely feel the leather
against my skin. Instead,

I admire the stitching,
think about how it
resembles my own
reassembled hand,

the one that can no longer
hold a ball—When I hold
my arm above my heart,
I can feel living blood

drain to my chest. What
does it mean that there is
skin on bone, bone on bone,
where a whole part of myself

used to be? Someone once said,
Use your left hand, most
artists are left-handed anyway.

What I think but don’t say:

Between the two of them, it’s
still the right one that I love

the most.

Copyright LaFollette 2019