To pull the metal splinter from my palm br my father recited a story in a low voice. br I watched his lovely face and not the blade. br Before the story ended, he'd removed br the iron sliver I thought I'd die from. br br I can't remember the tale, br but hear his voice still, a well br of dark water, a prayer. br And I recall his hands, br two measures of tenderness br he laid against my face, br the flames of discipline br he raised above my head. br br Had you entered that afternoon br you would have thought you saw a man br planting something in a boy's palm, br a silver tear, a tiny flame. br Had you followed that boy br you would have arrived here, br where I bend over my wife's right hand. br br Look how I shave her thumbnail down br so carefully she feels no pain. br Watch as I lift the splinter out. br I was seven when my father br took my hand like this, br and I did not hold that shard br between my fingers and think, br Metal that will bury me, br christen it Little Assassin, br Ore Going Deep for My Heart. br And I did not lift up my wound and cry, br Death visited here! br I did what a child does br when he's given something to keep. br I kissed my father.