The Smallest Wound

The edge of the envelope caught me clean,

a line between my thumb and skin unseen,

and then just: a thin slice of red,

a small wound on my hand instead.

So small you'd miss it if you didn't look,

but I'm looking—I'm watching it like a book,

and I can feel it every time I make a fist—

that particular sting I can't resist.

A paper cut from a bank letter,

something so small, so very meager,

and yet it manages to hurt,

to remind me I'm flesh, not inert.

I grip my coffee mug this morning

and there it is, the small warning,

the body's way of saying: remember,

I'm here, I'm real, in this cold December.