*This was a solicited piece.
my hands bed the seeds of small blisters the size of pincushion heads
summer flings, the inflammation grows in tiny white bumps
along every part of palm to tip
like rubble in my fingerprints
like white mushrooms on my mother’s front lawn
they fill with clear fluid, not blood or pus, burst weather I pinch them or not productive, like phlegm in December, but this is thegoodkindnotthebadkind
because it hurts only me
I weep from my hands
until the silver plastic of the Nintendo Gamecube controller rubs off
wrap tissue paper around spoons for grip
bind them in plastic grocery bags and thick ointment at night
I drink Coke Zero for the water
My mother mixes dish soap in water
pours it on the mushroom heads
she makes up a remedy, is certain the contagion is a sign of contamination
and filth in her household
asks me to wash my hands
the heat makes my skin both tender and moist
my identity incompatible with my Smartphone screen lock
my hands sliding across glass to Google the same information
“there is no cure
manage
a doctor may help
oozing
reduce
combat
drugs”
cycling through seasons of wet and dry
my hands wait for the fireworks on Canada Day
and the summer’s heat to stop their echo through July
watch the couples on Whyte Avenue walk past
sip drinks on patios
visit European espresso on Instagram
as the bumps of eczema squirrel into the deep canyons between fingers
and the plains of my palms
it feels like splintering life lines
pain lingering like the light of falling star showers behind my eyes
I am aware each time like it’s the first
that the largest organ in the human body is skin
the heat makes mosquitoes seek shelter there
crushed between the eczema’s domain and the eggshell-white walls of my old walk-up
a smooth surface in contact with my bubbling one
I won’t be asking for my damage deposit back
I hide from my parents, friends, my own eyes
couldn’t hold hands with my ex
my family thinks of me as cold as my insides erupt
new excuses every season
in bed, I sleep thirsting for the intimacy of a cool breeze
during the day, sit on the bonded white leather
putting my feet in the puke bucket filled with ice
wipe my hands on a pair of pants
that should have had its turn at kitchen rag by now
I burn from the extremities until I feel my outline
like a snow angel or a Ginsburg poem
feel pinpricks of pain like poetry
holding my body together
if I’m lucky, the heat will tire my skin enough to pop
and crack and bleed itself dry, instead of boil ready to burst
and the white blood cells will finally arrive
and they will sew shut the thousand wounds
my body keeps leaving in the world
Nisha Patel (she/her) was the 8th Poet Laureate of the City of Edmonton and is a Canadian Poetry Slam Champion. Her third collection, For the Record, is out fall of 2026 with Arsenal Pulp Press.
Instagram: @anothernisha
Website: nishapatel.ca