Image by m.prinke https://www.flickr.com/photos/mprinke/2541472806

It’s amazing how splinters
manage to thrust themselves
into the same spot on the back
of my pinky, just above
the top knuckle. Our gate
sends me with a piece of itself
nearly every time I take
the trash to the curb
as if the wood knows
where my skin is weakest
the way grief can
burrow into the soft spots
of my heart, stabbing the thin places
knowing that I don’t have tweezers
to pluck it free. So while
my pinky bears the splinter
for moments until I work it out
from under the surface
the sharp sliver of your loss
remains lodged within my chest
a throbbing pain from which
I’ll never find relief.