Splinter

By: Paul Hostovsky

Because he felt nothing,
because he felt he couldn’t
feel, he felt he couldn’t
love, and he lifted
the wooden door of the garage
which housed the car which
housed the easeful death
which he was half in love with,
when a small, dark,
insidious grace
entered his left palm
near the thumb
and lodged itself there,
and he winced in pain
and let go of his plan,
holding the injured hand
in the uninjured one,
holding it up to his mouth
as though drinking from it,
or eating from it,
or weeping into it,
and in this attitude walked
back into his life.


Paul Hostovsky's poems have won a Pushcart Prize, two Best of the Net Awards, the FutureCycle Poetry Book Prize, and have been featured on Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, The Writer's Almanac, and the Best American Poetry blog. He makes his living in Boston as a sign language interpreter.

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