Needles

There is a point to our discomfort--
The end of this needle.

You keep it at a distance
Like a child you have scolded,
A child who has hurt you.
But feelings only last so long.

The needle that binds us
Like flesh to flesh
In a surgeon’s stitch
Is straight and piercing,
Borne out of steel intercourse.

If anyone can become immune
To this metal-in-skin,
It is us.

We feel the slide of needles,
Thin, slick needles,
Across our tendons
And in our veins.

We do not blink
Even as needles pass
Through our eyes
And out our skulls.


--Boris Victor Stecko