Subcutaneous

The box is heavy and my grip is wet.

When I lift, the sleeve slides back a bit

to show a choice I haven't finished yet,

or a debt I’m still too stubborn to quit.

It was a sparrow once, or meant to be,

inked by a shaking hand in a basement stall.

Now the lines have leaked, wandering free

like a blue bruise that won't ever fade at all.

It hasn't aged. My skin is getting thin,

mapped with the miles and the things I’ve lost,

but that jagged bird is locked beneath the skin,

counting up the years and what they cost.