Small Puncture

A thumbtack and a Tuesday afternoon —

the letter pinned, rejection hanging slight

and crooked on the cork. The small wound bloomed

a bead of red. I sucked it. Copper bite.

The most honest thing that's happened all this week:

a pin, a page that says they passed, my blood

welling up without me having to speak

or ask for it. Just pressure, then the flood

no bigger than a lentil on my skin.

I left the letter crooked on the board.

It looked more true that way — the way I've been,

off-center, barely held by what I've stored.

The thumb still throbs. A small mouth, opening

and closing, with nothing particular to sing.