Tracing

by Daniel Romo

A new life hack is asking my wife to scratch
my back, a burdensome chore for anyone too

acquainted with the intimacy of self-sufficiency.
But I’ve learned pride comes before the squall

and humbling myself leads to an act of cartography
in which her nails dig into my skin as if carving

a world where each scrape is a new road leading
to a deeper line of communication. I didn’t want

to leave the negative review on Yelp, but the
barista’s repeat attitude outweighed the flavor

of the tea, and appointing yourself the sun in
someone else’s sky is grounds for a reduction

of stars. Imagine the ease of navigating through
clouds and ourselves if we realized all we needed

to do was ask someone to hit our itchy spots and
serve drinks with a smile. Sometimes in the middle

of the groggy-eyed night amidst my wife’s semi-
adorable snoring, I get up to take a piss and rub

my back against the wooden doorway to remind
myself how each splinter stung, how something

so small can burrow and grow into your soul until
you are ready to unfurl your hand to show just

how much you hurt.