Small Crescent

The thumbnail, small shield

on the edge of a finger,

a kind of silent ledger.

A hangnail, picked raw

while the kettle whistled low.

The pale half-moon, pushed back,

almost gone from all the work,

the constant, nervous jerk.

A faint ridge from where

I slammed it in a drawer once,

months ago,

a tiny, chipped fault line.

And underneath, a smudge

of ink from yesterday,

a dark fleck

that won't just wash away.

It holds its history,

a small, curved mystery.