Her writing tells the fateful truth:
Strings of letters that don’t make words
In a language no one ever learned,
So small as to look like microdots.

The hand that holds the reluctant pen
Feels normal til it tries to write,
And finds it doesn’t know the words
That are painfully born on the paper.

Practice only makes it worse
As disconnected muscles try
To learn again to make an A
And how the letters go together.

Her hand is weak and clumsy
The arm and leg feel heavy
Nothing does as it is told
By a brain now somewhat broken.

Back in second grade again
She practices her penmanship
And rows and rows of numbers
In hopes of graduation day.
ljm