The Twitch

The thread is frayed at the end,

a tiny grey tail that won't go through the eye.

I wet it with spit and try again,

but my thumb gives a sudden, sharp jerk.

It’s the same hitch he had

when he was trying to find the ignition

in the old Buick, the keys rattling

against the plastic column.

I rub the white scar on my knuckle,

the skin tough and shiny as a coin.

It’s a map I didn't ask for,

drawn in the marrow before I was born.