Self-Correction

They look like a line of dead ants

marooned on a pink, swollen island.

Six knots of black nylon

holding the side of my calf together.

The bathroom light is too yellow.

I sit on the edge of the tub

with the nail scissors I sterilized

over a Zippo in the kitchen.

The silver blade slips under the first loop.

Snip.

The skin lets go of its passenger

with a tiny, wet tug.

My hands are shaking.

I’m thirty-two and cutting myself open

to get the metal and the thread out

because I can’t afford the follow-up.