Foreign Body

I ran my palm along the railing of the porch

and felt the cedar bite back.

It’s just a tiny black line under the skin,

a needle-point of wood that refused the steel

of the tweezers I used until I drew blood.

It’s settled in now, a dull throb in the meat

of my thumb whenever I try to grip a pen.

Some things enter you and decide to stay,

turning into a part of the way you move,

a secret ache that you learn to work around.