Permanent Resident

The needle sits on the porcelain rim,

the tip scorched black from the Bic.

I gave up around midnight

after the bathroom floor was littered

with shredded bits of my own thumb.

It’s cedar. A souvenir from the porch rail.

Now the skin has closed its mouth,

tight and pink and slick.

I tried to twist the lid off the pickles

and felt it—a hot, secret needle

buried against the bone.

It’s part of the plumbing now.

I’ll carry that half-inch of wood

until the rest of me is gone, too.