What the Skin Remembers

In the break room, eight-fifteen,

he cut the cast away.

The skin beneath was pale and thin

as February.

He touched his wrist the way you'd touch

a door you weren't sure would hold.

Flexed his fingers. Stopped. Tried again.

The forearm looked too cold,

too new, or else too old—

I couldn't decide.

The fiberglass sat on the table,

the gray dust on its side

still almost visible.

Someone's coffee going cold beside it.

He kept looking at his own hand

like he needed to be told it

was still his.