Threadwork

The nurse has a pair of those tiny steel shears

to end the survival of all of my fears.

The room smells of citrus and rubbing alcohol,

cleaner than any place I can recall.

She tugs at the thread and it’s sharp as a pin,

pulling the nylon right out of my skin.

The wound is a ridge that is starting to fade,

forgetting the slip of the serrated blade.

She drops the black knots on a silver-rimmed tray,

where they sit like dead spiders and wither away.

They’re small and they’re plastic and finished with me,

leaving the thumb and the spirit both free.