Basting

The mirror doesn't lie about the thread.

Five black loops of nylon, tight and neat,

holding the split skin over my head

where the corner of the shelf and my skull had to meet.

It’s started to crawl now, a deep-seated itch

that feels like a colony of ants in the bone.

I want to reach up and undo every stitch,

to see if the wound can stand on its own.

The skin is puckered like a drawstring bag,

purple and angry at the edges of the knot.

I’m just a garment with a heavy, loose tag,

trying to remember what the doctor forgot.