Fingertip Stain

Pulled it from the fireplace, heavy, cold,

that chunk of black, forgotten coal.

A ghost of fire, long since dead,

just grit and shadow, instead

of heat.

My thumb went straight to it, I didn't think.

Now a dark smudge, a dirty kink

in the skin, won't wash away quite right.

Like a secret kept, through day and night.

It smells like old wood smoke, faint and dry,

a memory caught beneath my eye.

This residue, this stubborn mark,

a little piece of the ancient dark,

under my nail.