Repair

Three weeks since the mug broke and cut my palm.

I watched it close—thin new skin came in

shiny and tight, that particular calm

of almost done. I stopped checking. Then

I woke at three with blood on the sheet.

I'd scratched it open in my sleep.

I turned the pillowcase over. Beat.

The cut wasn't done. I'd gone too deep

while sleeping to know what I was doing.

The skin will close again—that's the work

it does when it itches. I know that. Screwing

it up anyway in the dark,

half-asleep, not even trying.

The pillowcase is face-down on the floor.

The cut will itch again. I'm not denying

I'll do this again. Maybe more.