a spark fell onto the back of the hand

and from where the skin lifted up
(like a parachute, like a dome)
over the matchhead burn
there rose a need to touch
the yielding bubble over and over again
(tenderly, knowing how fragile it might be)

with the hope of understanding it,
in the hope of learning from it

how to examine those hurts
that might not blister as this one did, learn
to allow them to settle on their own instead of always
needing to open them so their foul oil could flow from within
onto the previous stains, making them ever darker;
a blister gives a chance to practice, and

we always make time for practice, even though
we always end up peeling back the slack skin and letting
a drop of fluid fall, one tear, onto the scars
we swore we would never worry again.