The Tenant

The pallet was pine, unplaned and cheap,

a dry-rotted thing in the loading bay.

I moved it aside for the truck to keep

the schedule that eats up the middle of day.

Now I’m home in the dark, on the tub’s porcelain,

with a needle I’ve sterilized over a flame.

There’s a localized pulse coming deep from within,

a small, jagged ghost that has taken my name.

The skin of my thumb is a translucent pink,

stretched tight by the wood that is hiding below.

I watch the blood swirl in the drain of the sink,

waiting for what’s buried inside me to go.