Meditation on my Left Hand
Five-digit friend of fork and frets, you hold still
the eye of the needle and the inkwell of the quill.
You’ve never known the barrel of a dart, phone numbers,
the glide of scissors, the cramp of an essay, an uppercut.
You’ve never known a gripped zip, clinked glass, clicked mouse.
You’ve never been charged to lock the house.
You’ve held tears, money, matchboxes, gear sticks, wine
bottles, a thousand bindings of books, tennis balls, a fishing line,
reigns, grief, hair dryers, cards, the nape of a neck, the dirt
from a child’s hand. You hold close to the heart and QWERT.
Equal in heaving, pushing, plaiting, piano, washing half a face,
gloves, tying laces, embraces, prayer. You know your place
humble, waiting in the clipped wings, solidarity on ice.
You had your moment. Taken for one day, to begin a new life
not quite piloting to the moon, composing piano
concertos or mirror writing between masterpieces in Milano
but equally devoted. And at the end, the worn
phalanx of your ring finger and the silent retentions torn
from turned pages, will be the only relics of your life’s story
signed by the dexterity of the other’s glory.
Yet in the dark, when the world forgets,
you are the hand that reaches—
Jacqui Ritchie is an English poet living in London. She has published work in Tablet magazine and has recently had six poems longlisted for the Fish Anthology prize and one poem shortlisted for the Bridport prize 2025. An alumna of Faber, she is currently working on her first collection.