Hardened

The kettle starts its thin, metallic scream

while their voices rise in the living room.

I stand by the sink, ignoring the steam,

picking at the yellowed ridge on my palm.

It’s a wall I built with a rake and a spade,

a week of yard work turned into bone.

I tug at a loose flap I've already made

until it snags on my sweater’s wool hem.

A white flake of me, dry as a scale,

dangling from the sleeve like a secret.