It’s a fraction of an inch of pine

It’s a fraction of an inch of pine,

tucked under the heel of my thumb.

I felt the workbench snag my palm

in a moment of careless, sliding weight,

and now the steering wheel is a problem.

Every turn at the intersection

sends a hot wire up my wrist.

Looking at it, it’s just a dark mark,

a shadow under a translucent dome,

waiting for the needle and the flame.

Some things don't want to come back out

once they’ve found the meat.