Left
My fear of school started young,
as soon as my mother told me teachers
made her write with her right hand.
She said that was the rule if you
were a lefty. I am lefthanded.
The notion that someone could make
you do something your body wasn’t
meant to do, that they could change you,
prepared me for history, news reports, bullies.
It was different for my generation—
I was allowed to use my left hand.
We learned cursive in second grade.
But I broke my left wrist falling
off my brother’s bike, which was too big,
and couldn’t write at all. I tried learning
with my other hand, but never did. When
I write, I print. Except for my signature,
which for many years, even when signing
checks, I intentionally wrote as an X.
H.E. Fisher (she/they) is the author of the collection STERILE FIELD (Free Lines Press, 2022) and chapbook JANE ALMOST ALWAYS SMILES (Moonstone Arts Center Press, 2022). H.E.’s poems have appeared in Tupelo Quarterly, Psaltery & Lyre, Ligeia Magazine, Whale Road Review, Pithead Chapel, and Rogue Agent, among other publications. H.E. was awarded City College of New York’s 2019 Stark Poetry Prize and has received nominations for Best of the Net and The Pushcart Prize. H.E. is a recipient of the Poets Afloat and Stonecrop Gardens residencies and a Rockland County Council for the Arts (ACOR) 2024 Artists Support grant. H.E. is an editor, writing coach/tutor, and health literacy activist, and lives in the Hudson River Valley.
The Marbled Sigh 