The Mend

The oven rack bit me a week ago,

a red-hot stripe on a Tuesday night.

Now it’s a tight and frantic show

of nerves that are trying to set things right.

I’m nodding along to a voice on the phone

while my fingers dig at the peeling edge.

It’s a deep-down buzz in the very bone,

a frantic, dry and crawling pledge.

White flakes of me are under the nail,

the old self shedding to make some room.

It’s a quiet kind of personal fail

to scratch at the flower before the bloom.