the splinter by Francesco Severino

quarter the size of a fingernail
hurt like a sword four times as big as he
had sliced him in two
red guts all over the grass
but the only color was the pinkish-glow
of his heel, and the orange fluorescence around
the hearth

can you walk?
he waddled like a penguin on marijuana
and answered my question without a word

then i remembered!
a pouch i packed last night
the color of Red Vines
and a big white plus stretched over the front

but as i searched its contents
my smug grin flipped upside-down
i pulled out everything,
an old Macintosh 128K
an ace of clubs with the left corner missing
a small piece of Simon’s frankincense (that we
burned)
a broken shark’s tooth
a balloon inflated with flatulence
a snowglobe with a miniature panopticon
inside
a brain (species unclear)

i pulled
a ceramic urn with a chimera drawn on the side
a pair of wavy scissors
that only made the splinter shorter–

so i pulled out a 5th grade poster of
photosynthesis
a chicken leg!
a used bandaid (ew, why is that in there)
a barely used tube of neosporin (oh that’s why)

i pulled out the moon
a bag of chili lime beef jerky
a scottish flag but not the current one
and a purple hacky sack.

i pulled out everything
everything but a pair of tweezers.