The numbness is retreating like a tide

The numbness is retreating like a tide

leaving the shore of my arm raw and stinging.

I reached for the lamp and felt the thread slide,

a sharp, nylon tug where the needles were winging.

It’s a row of black knots, a crude little track

holding the edges of my skin in a grip.

Like a zipper that’s stuck halfway down the back,

or a secret I’m trying to keep from the lip.

I look at the pattern, the way the meat puckers,

a dark railway line on a map of the bone.

We’re held together by these synthetic suckers

until we can learn how to stand on our own.