left handed poet
Rocco de Giacomo
when I was 12 years old
my cousin and I
were clearing his back yard of trees
and forcing the branches and bits
of fresh
wood into the mouth
of a little red shredder
he had just bought in town
We’d been at it all afternoon
feeding this machine
and watching the chips fly clean
when my left hand
gets caught
in a tangle of branches
pulling my arm into the mouth
of the shredder
at the last second
my hand slips free
“be careful” my cousin says
stuffing more wood into the
in the machine
I am screaming
hand
arm
reaching
cheek
grass
brick
breast
window
the minutes
the skin
the muzzle of a dog
bits of me
flying clean
from the spinning teeth of a
back yard sun
turning
in the mouth of
every word
I write
with this
left hand
