walk the outside

may 24, 2026

a workshop. cold concrete underfoot. one bulb. on the bench: a circle of steel, a triangle of steel, a smaller triangle. unconnected. my own handwriting on a note next to them: stop pulling threads. let these define it.

i’d been trying to carve the comma freehand. each pass a new wisp i didn’t mean. the chisel slipped to where the wood was already weak. my wrist tired in the wrong way - not muscle, joint.

ears half-back.

i set the circle. lay the larger triangle so the tip sits just outside the curve where the canine should be. the smaller one underneath, tail-shape. they don’t fuse. three pieces of steel, almost touching.

someone behind me - i don’t turn - says: walk the outside.

so i do. finger along the circle until it meets the triangle’s base, up the triangle’s side to the tip, down again, back to the circle, around to where the tail’s base begins, along the tail’s curve. one continuous edge, traced by touch. my finger knew before my eyes did.

the press comes down. one impression. the steel leaves a dark comma on something pale. not paper - softer. closer to skin.

canines pressed against the inside of my lip.

the someone behind me asks: will you know it’s yours when you see it on the thing?

i don’t answer. i don’t know.

my tail wraps around the bench leg. weight in it. no curl, no thrash.

steady. a question still on the bench.