An Itch for Poetry

Wrote this a while back and realized I never shared it. Enjoy.

I run you across my palm,

tracing the grooves

of an incomplete star.

You resist with a scripscripscrip.

but it doesn’t hurt. Those cells

are dead anyway.

Just like you.

It’s funny how the other

fingernails have been torn, bent, and

chewed without you.  Is it because

I forget you are there on the end of my hand

or because you are determined to live?

To be named “the little fingernail that grew”?

I should really cut you off

before I catch you on my belt loop

or stab someone with a friendly handshake.

Instead I rub you back and forth over my incisor.

It feels like a seesaw inside my mouth;

a steady back and forth.

I feel sleepy and suddenly remember

my mother.

How her long fingernails would graze

through the waves in my hair

while my head rested on her lap.

Will you run through the strands of

a child’s hair? Or sport Husker red

for a football game? Will you scoop up

an innocent drop of butter cream frosting?

Or will I cut your off tonight…with one single

Click.