The nail caught clean

The nail caught clean,

a line drawn on the skin.

Not much blood, just a thin

red stripe, but deep within.

He pulled the thread, white,

through the raw pink edge.

His hands, I thought, were right

there, over the ledge

of what was mine. A faint

click, the knot pulled tight.

Antiseptic, a strange saint,

filling the pale white

room with its sharp clean smell.

And the skin, a tiny pucker.

It held. Held me, held well.

A tight, careful succor.