Digging for Pearls by Leigh Johnson

Digging for Pearls

by Leigh Johnson

In a sweaty tent, I wake up from dreaming about you and catch my arm on a briar climbing out. It isn’t more than a sharp scrape —only bleeds long enough for me to wipe it away.

Before dinner, I get into the river undressed. Stir up the rich brown bottom wading out into the current, let it tug me away. Til I get hungry and turn, swim up and so hard the sting is just splashing water.

By Monday it’s scabbed over— but flushed hot below the skin with red, itching infection. Press it like a bruise, hot like my cheek when you hit me with I love you

Splash it with alcohol but the scab does its job —no more in. No more out. Think about leaving it, hope that bruise doesn’t blossom and streak. Stead I try picking at it, but it clings to me like you did when you came.

I take a shower hotter than my wound. Soften the scab into a bloated brownish line,

peel it off and see, nestled in the shallow ditch of red-raw flesh— half a dozen yellow-white pearls of pus.

I can’t squeeze them out of me, like I still can’t chase you out of my dreams. But the teeth in my arm are too straight to be yours, though they shine the same. Like this one, your dream-mouth never talks— I forgot all your words.

The lighter chicks and I heat tweezer tips in the flame. Let them cool for a second. Use the warm metal to dig for pearls.