Bare Wire

I sliced the plastic till the skin gave way,

revealing threads of metal, bright and red.

The lamp has flickered out for half the day,

the light is mostly something in my head.

The copper smells like pennies or like blood,

the kind of heat that happens under strain.

It lived inside the wall through fire and flood

to carry every pulse of joy and pain.

I twisted the ends until my fingers burned.

It’s naked now, and dangerous to touch.

That’s the lesson that the current finally learned:

you only shine when you’ve been stripped of much.