poetry

Calluses

I cut my calluses

slice through them with
clippers, knives, scissors

sometimes down to the meat
past the dead unfeeling part
to the part that bleeds

It bubbles right up
like crude,
pressurized

It’s surprising every time
when it hurts
when it bleeds and won’t stop

I wrap tissue after tissue
paper towels if that’s all I’ve got
and pull them away to gauge the flow

Once it’s down to a red dot

I dig deeper