Embedded

It’s a dark, thin line of cedar under the thumb,

a stowaway from the porch rail I tried to mend.

The skin around the entry is starting to go numb,

but the ache in the joint is a difficult friend.

I dug at the surface with a pair of silver tongs

until the top layer was ragged and wet with red.

It doesn't want to leave where it clearly belongs,

buried in the meat of the hand like a secret instead.

Every time I reach for the handle of the door,

the wood inside me reminds me it’s still there.

A piece of the house that I’m forced to endure,

a splinter of something I wasn't supposed to share.