The Stone Doesn't Care

The callus has been there for months.

On the ball of my foot,

where my shoe rubs,

where I stand too long at counters.

I've ignored it the way you ignore

the noise in your car

until the noise is all you hear.

Last night I thought I could sand it away.

A stone I found in my bathroom,

gray and light,

the kind of stone that was made for this,

that looks at you and says: I can fix you.

It can't.

I pressed down too hard,

made circles,

felt the stone eating away at skin

that was already compromised,

already weak.

The dust came off pink.

Then it came off red.

This morning the foot swelled.

The skin underneath is the color of infection,

or the promise of it,

and I'm standing here thinking about

how you can make something worse

by trying to make it better,

how there are no tools

that only go one direction.

The stone is in my hand again.

I've washed the blood off it,

but I can still feel the heat

from yesterday's work,

can still see the fine grooves

where my own skin got stuck.

I should throw it away.

Instead I'm thinking about tomorrow,

about whether I can sand away more,

whether if I just keep going,

I'll get past the infected part

and find something clean underneath.

The stone doesn't care what I decide.

It's just stone.

It has already done its work.