Plaster and Chalk

The novelty’s gone and the plaster is cold,

a heavy white secret that’s starting to fold.

I carried it up like a log for the fire,

my shoulder a knot of a tightening wire.

I clipped the doorframe in the dark of the hall,

a hollow-point thud that shook through the wall.

The vibration traveled right into the bone,

a sharp little reminder I’m healing alone.

I’ve got a coat hanger bent in a hook

to reach the deep itch that the bandage mistook.

It’s an anchor of chalk dragging down on my side,

with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.