Assimilating Pain
In Vietnam I dropped
the head of a sledge
on my pinkie toe
in the motor pool once.
Pain snapped
on its harsh light,
then glowed unevenly
as a dying fluorescent tube
all night.
The nail curled black
as a winter leaf,
tore
when I pulled my sock
off.
I didn’t visit sick call.
I
lived,
began to draw
my knuckles
once a week
across the burred edges
of tank armor.
I saw the tiny slices
fill with red.
It was an accident,
as was
the elbow striking a crowbar,
the intercourse
between my palm
and the blade
of a flat head screwdriver,
hot brass I plucked
fresh from the rifle range
with my bare fingers.
I could take it.
At home, I permitted
the filament of a weed eater
to kiss my ankle.
I bathed myself red
in a cauldron of steam.
I bit my fingers to see
the outline of teeth
stitch the flesh
above the knuckle.
Klutz!
I cursed, and
Dumb ass!
I was
training.
I snuck to touch
the stove
behind my wife’s back –
to get away with it,
see if she caught on.
I didn’t want my body
to shake,
betray
those throes
when it
finally hit
critical mass.
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