Dysgraphia | AJ Wolff
Updated: Jul 19, 2019
I am a widepalm stamp
of the mapletree swatting
another inevitable morning.
is just another meter I’m forgetting.
Everything is art if you turn it on its belly
My son taught me that. With stacks. And Stacks.
Of print order slips. And homework. He avoids
making eye contact with.
—he draws the same line a hundred
times, but can’t get it
That’s too small—he erases
the exact same one
He does this several times/ before flinching:
There. He/lies: That’s better.
I hold my arms out and ask
the sun to feed me, too, but
I can’t adjust my lines, either.
my neighbors ask what kind of yoga you call that and i ask how their children are doing in school
and we sway our heads nervously and no one can figure out the space of times like these or
is that just me/ us?
shake and fall around us
like leaves or stars, but it’s
in the muddy spring
and I tell
is how we are free
my wide palms, my wild fingers
teach him something, about space
AJ Wolff is a queer single mother, feminist, poet (she/her/hers). Her work is published in Rising Phoenix Review, L'Éphémère Review, Rust + Moth, Burning House Press, Riggwelter, and other generous presses.