Little Nick
I’m sick of cuts and scratches
And patchy malatchy,
And broken baby toenails snagged
In the midnight sheets;
The little nicks of razor blades,
Right below the knee;
The avocado accident;
Thorns snapped from a blackberry branch;
That canker sore in the corner of my mouth;
Flesh flaps ground between taut sleeping teeth;
A cat’s claw lodged in a passing sock;
Splinters, especially under the nail –
invisible – is it really there?
Scrapes from ragged window frames,
supposed smooth;
Paper cuts; the open safety pin
I thought was closed;
Stepping on a tack; the revenge of the plucked rose;
A jagged bottle cap; the lid I snapped on tight,
pinching my own skin.
The world’s sharp, scratchy objects win their war on me.
Bandaids shine like blisters where medals ought to be.
Detachment’s not an option, that is clear.
Impish Life, armed only with a sharp little knife,
Calls out, “Wake up! I’m here!
I’m here!”
--Linda Brown Holt
Linda Brown Holt
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