The Spark

Winter air, dry skin, I reached for the knob

and the electricity found me—

a blue-white shock, a tiny throb

of pain that made me see

how close we live to burning.

My kid laughed at my face.

I didn't. There was no grace

in that small violence,

that sudden silence

where safety was.

The spark lives in my fingertips still.

All afternoon I feel it. The will

to avoid touching anything

keeps growing. Everything

could hurt me.

The boundary between safe and spark

is just the weather, the dark,

the dryness of the season.

There's no reason

to trust your hands.