Splinter
Splinter
Alexis Ragan
Too little payment for so great a debt — Shakespeare
Buried the stump in a forearm’s length
of concrete, that night in my backyard
when I thought no neighbors were looking.
Cranked the valve to a searing steam standing
under the showerhead for a good while,
and I mean, a good while.
It was decided after I realized the rings
were open, oozing sap loud and hiss-like,
making sticky the bottom of my shoes
to destroy me. In brief, I forgot about it,
thought I saw a stem around it,
but only shade slanted the pavement,
and that is all it could be.
One night, after watching an archer
bend their bow blindfolded and hit
the center without cheating, my sheets
went stale and damp beneath me — even
though my hair had air dried, the aquarium
was deserted, and the fan had shut off;
that is when I began to feel it.
Next morning, I saw it. This sting-like thing,
a pompous swelling, red and hive-shaped,
staring right back at me. I began to hear it,
the faint sound of a colony swarming
underneath my skin — this refutable
rash reaction reminding me of the stump
hidden with cheap cement. I winced towards
the spot now overgrown with weeds; it was moist.
The following day, an elder on the street
was walking and noticed me holding my side.
I know that walk, he said, I’ve seen that wound,
this bump, this bite, because he had it too.
Told me of Paul’s thorn and how the Lamb
had licked his splinter, made its tongue bleed,
then left him fleece for winter.
Now I celebrate the shard, he said,
even boast about the sliver. You should too.
I didn’t know what he meant.
Rejoice in a splinter?
For one, his was smaller,
less pulsating and pain stricken.
Shouldn’t I at least try to pluck it out?
No, he said. This is not for nothing.
So, I left it.
Months passed and I lived with a limp.
Every time I felt the wood shaving
wedged deep sharpening its utensils,
I circled the soft ball of wool he gave me
from his pocket between my fingertips.
Soon, I became acquainted
with my semi-permanent side ache.
I sang about it, and before I knew it, it shrank.
Sometimes, though, I will slide my fingers
over that small, stubborn splinter
to remind myself that it’s still there.
And I smile.
Alexis Ragan
Poet & Teacher
Alexis is a poet and teacher. Her work has appeared in Alabaster Co and Calla Press.
Photography by Nillo Abdulaziz