I was ten years old.
We were reflooring our house.
The old, musty, carpets were gone,
ripped up to find hardwood underneath,
All that was left were the solitary
tack strips, like mouths gaping
with sharp, pointy teeth.
The tacks stuck up from their wooden gums
like a gruesome under bite.
I had heard her say it before,
"No running, Alex." I paid no attention.
They were beckoning me to come near,
as a smiling coyote might.
I shot down the narrow hall,
on either side its metal dentures,
and as I did, they chomped down.
I cried out in pain, pleading
for its jaw to release my toes.
Three of my nails were cracked or split,
I could hear the tacks laughing.
Carried to the bathroom, red blood
dripped down the side of my foot
like juice from one's mouth.
Easing the wound into a shallow tub,
the water turned soft, tongue pink.
Left to dress it myself,
I examined my battle scars.
At least I wasn't swallowed whole,
and now I knew to stay away
from gaping mouths of tack strips.
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