Under the sofa dustbunnies thick

Under the sofa, dust-bunnies thick,

a metallic clang, a sudden sick

jolt to the smallest bone I own.

My pinky, bent, a silent moan.

A spring, unseen, a sharp old wire,

caught it hard, set it on fire.

Just a flicker of pain, then dull throb,

but it made me stop, and catch my breath, a sob

that wasn't quite a sob, just air.

This little stick, so often not there

in my thoughts, so slight, so easily lost.

But it carries history, at what cost?

There, on the knuckle, a thin white line,

from kindergarten, when I climbed that pine

and fell, catching it on a splintered board.

It’s always been the first, the poorly stored,

the one to break, the first to feel,

the one that makes the whole hand reel.