The Tenth Finger

I tried to peel the price tag off the box

but the edge just folded back and gave.

I’ve chewed the corner down until it locks

against the skin, a jagged, little cave.

Then the soup can lid caught the very center,

leaving a white and chalky sort of line.

It’s a tiny gate where any hurt can enter,

a shallow fault within the hard design.

I bit it back in February, I recall,

when the snow was piled against the porch.

Now it’s just a ridge, a stunted wall,

smoking like a low and tiny torch.