Extraction

The neighbor’s dog was screaming at a squirrel

and I let my hand slide down the wood.

A catch. A snag. A quick, sharp swirl

of something that didn't feel good.

It’s cedar. A dark, thin needle of heat

buried under the pad of my thumb.

It beats like a heart, a tiny, red feat

of making my whole arm feel numb.

I look at it under the kitchen lamp—

it looks like a vein that’s gone the wrong way.

A secret I’m keeping, hot and damp,

stuck in the middle of a Tuesday.