I’m usually pretty self-conscious about my creative writing. Unless it gets published I usually only share it with good friends.

Except with this most recent poem. My friends who have—or are just about to receive—Masters of Fine Arts in creative writing like it. Ergo, here I am, showing you.

Scab Scratching

Like spread-eagle in snow
with too-few clothes
the sting froze
anesthete

Placed the needle precise
small scratch belied
voluminous
slice

Don’t you revisit pain
—sometimes in vein—
for a taste
life?