Devil’s Hill

I suppose I hurt my hand

the day I slipped on that devil’s hill

the numbing snow protecting me from the pain

I suppose that’s why it hurt like hell when I stuck it under the faucet

felt the warm water rush over my red fingers

stinging relief, welcoming burn

It was only when it didn’t stop burning that I wondered


I suppose I hurt my hand

on that damn slippery hill where friction goes to die

There is no other explanation


All the slaps I never distributed

are leaving their spots in the resentful corners of my mind and

their shadows have flown down to sting my hand –

After all,

it is the thought that counts