The castiron is too heavy for one hand today

The cast-iron is too heavy for one hand today.

When I lift it, the grain of cedar

bites back from under the callus.

The skin has bridged the gap, a smooth,

unreliable ceiling over the intrusion.

I press the flashlight to my thumb

and see my own blood, glowing and thick,

with a thin, black shadow

sleeping in the heat of the red map.