Wound

 

Give me each piece of the shard of glass I stepped on and you ceremoniously extracted from my heel. Blood-stained, uneven and jagged edges. Found weeks after the cup was dropped. Found in my skin. Found on the splatter-plot of my gory steps to the bathroom to sit on the closed toilet, perform yoga poses to try and identify what has penetrated my foot’s feel good sense of exploration. I want this souvenir. A necklace to wear around my neck. A reminder. No, don’t clean it off. Let it be how it was, fresh in the air as my wound congealed and set itself right and we began to blot up the evidence of my travels.