The pine wood floors were slick in socks
so I challenged my brother to a race, then
grabbed a running head start from one end
of the hall, before sliding all smile to the other—
arms wide, knees bent, one foot out front

A splinter snagged the cotton under my toe
and momentum drove it deep into my sole
where it remained lodged, while my mother
picked, picked, picked at my skin with a needle
and my brother held a lemon-yellow popsicle

When my father entered, he took one look at her
handiwork—shredded fringe of pale skin obscuring
the dark line below— put his whiskey down
and announced he would take care of it
then pulled a Buck knife from the sheath on his belt

At the sight of the broad, stainless steel blade
I made a break for the door, but he scooped me up
plopped me on the counter, grabbed my foot firmly
and with the precision of a confident surgeon
made one expert slice then shucked the shard out

“There,” he said. “That wasn’t so bad. Was it?”
But I said nothing. He looked back down at my foot
pulled a clean white handkerchief from his pocket
pressed it tight against my wound and kissed my knee
while I reached for my brother’s melting popsicle

and ignored the blood flower that bloomed
in my father’s outstretched hand

Elisabeth Harrahy is an Associate Professor of Biology at the University of Wisconsin-Whitewater. Her poems have appeared in Zone 3, Plainsongs, Ghost City Review, 3rd Wednesday Review, The Café Review, and elsewhere. She is the recipient of an Editor’s Choice Award in the Paterson Literary Review’s 2021 Allen Ginsberg Poetry Contest.