Four Letters

The toaster oven bit me on the wrist,

a red and sudden, localized twist.

The dog is watching, waiting for a sound,

but I keep my feet pressed to the ground.

My sister’s on the line about the plot,

the casket cost, the things we haven’t bought.

I tell her I’m fine, three times in a row,

gripping the chipped mug, letting the heat go.

The word is a scab that refuses to peel,

hiding the part that's forgotten how to feel.

I watch the knuckle turn a bloodless white,

and tell her I'll call her back tomorrow night.