Settling for a patch job,
they tug out the shard,
right there, bare hands,
in the middle of Seabreeze.

It glints wetly in the
clouded dark light, bright
bottle green unrounded
by any time at sea.

They sop up the blood with
glove-compartment napkins,
stitch her up with thread pulled
from an old sweatshirt.

Between waves of nausea
she gurgles, it doesn’t matter:
if the scar isn’t pretty,
if the sand left behind
one day rubs through muscle,
spits grime down veins,
grates and wears on joints—

It’s on the inside.
No one will see.