Cold Seal

The fork is a prisoner of wood,

The handle is stuck in the dark.

I’d leave it for dead if I could,

But the hunger is leaving a mark.

I scraped at the track with a stub,

A candle that never saw fire.

A frantic and chemical rub

To quiet the screech of the wire.

The shavings are white in my hair,

Small flakes on a knuckle of bone.

It slides with a greasy despair,

Like a secret I’ve finally known.