At a level audible only to small and nervous mammals

a needle thunders into the red landscape of the plastic

box of spent sharps. A needle’s purpose is to kill or

to heal, to sew together or pick apart; the needle is not

wise enough to know the difference and neither is

the hand that holds the needle. Whenever a needle

enters the vicinity of my veins, my veins are insulted.

They are stubborn; they roll to the side, they refuse

to appear in the first place. I apologize to the gloved

hand holding the needle. My body misbehaves and I

know it, the way a tongue knows a broken tooth, the way

I know the flaws that trip my tongue to flay, to insult.

I imagine the trail I’ve left behind, bloodied gauze and

ruined needles and sorry, I’m sorry, bad veins. A needle’s

purpose is to embellish, to alter the flat landscape of

canvas. A needle isn’t sorry. It must pierce to beautify,

to trail a bruise of flowers; a needle knows a person must

know damage to learn when to say sorry, when to repent.