The Dummy

The toaster oven popped a second too late

and the rack caught me right on the joint.

It’s a red-rimmed welt, a miserable state,

a burn with a blistering point.

This hand is the one that gets caught in the door

or fumbles the glass in the sink.

It carries the baggage, it reaches for more,

it acts while the other can think.

I grip the wheel tight on the long drive back,

and the scar on the thumb is a ghost.

A jagged white line from a bicycle crack,

the part of me damaged the most.