Friction

I’ve been counting. It’s a habit now,

like checking the stove or the lock.

It’s been weeks since I felt—

well, anything that wasn't my own skin.

The lady at the deli counter, she grazed

my thumb when she passed the ham.

A jolt. Like a wire snapped.

She wore those blue, waxy gloves,

and the tip of one was torn,

caught in the metal tie of the bag.

I stared at that translucent scrap

all the way to the car,

feeling like I’d just been rescued

from a very quiet, very dark room.