Small Host

A week of this ticking in my thumb,

a tiny, dark passenger under the skin.

I sterilized the needle in the blue flame

of a lighter, then went digging in.

The mirror is cruel to the shaky hand.

I made a crater, a red-rimmed mess,

trying to evict a millimeter of wood

that caused such disproportionate distress.

One drop of blood hit the ceramic basin,

a bright, wet flower on the white.

The floorboard took its piece of me

and I’m keeping it for the night.