What the Body Forgets

I ran a thumb across the index finger

before the call. The ridge was gone—

not quite a scar, just where the skin

used to be hard. Used to press.

I played at Mara's on Saturday.

Thought it would come back.

The G chord slipped, the string buzzed,

and I put the guitar down

and said something about being out of practice

and Mara said something kind

and I got another drink.

Two years.

I used to play until the ridges went white,

the fingertips sore by morning.

Now there's just a small soft indent

on the pad of the finger—

the body filling in

what I stopped asking it for.