Six Dollars a Loop

The lid didn't want to let go of the broth,

jagged and silver as a winter-starved moth.

I was trying to keep the salt and the tin

from going to waste, so I let the edge in.

The ER was bright and the lidocaine cold,

a story of pennies that's getting quite old.

Now the numbness is packed in a cardboard box,

and my pulse is a hammer that never quite stops.

I look at my palm, at the rows of the black,

nylon ants marching to bring the skin back.

Thirty-six dollars for six little knots,

to keep my own blood from staining the pots.