Closure

The doctor was a seamstress in a hurry,

leaving a zipper of blue-black nylon

to hold the meat of my forearm together

after the pallet jack slipped in the rain.

I bumped the counter reaching for a mug

and felt the skin pucker, a sudden, hot tug

reminding me that I am held by a thread

while the company lawyers are sleeping in bed.

It’s a jagged little border, a ridge of new grit,

and no matter the lotion, I can’t soften it.

The wound is technically shut, I suppose,

but the heat of the metal still lives in the close.