Something about the nail through my hand said Jesus. Or was it shit?
No, that was me. The nail-gun, on the other hand,
in the other hand, said nothing, though its compressor wheezed a bit,
and blood fallen into sawdust spread like wine in sand.

Today I say, 'Stigmatum hell, that's a nail hole!'
Before I climbed back down the ladder though, I held the safety back
with a pale finger on my impaled left hand and shot a sixteen-penny nail
at a laughing magpie, sarcastic-looking, all white and black.

And missed, of course. Something about pain loves company.
I might have felt even worse if I'd nailed that cackling bird,
but I've come to love the scars held out front of me,
or in and on my hand at least. Jesus and goddammit, yet another word

I yelped, after lopping the pointy two inches off and jerking
the head—and sheared end out with a pliers, then dousing the holes
with isopropyl. Honestly, I'm skilled at working
with such tools as that. I hardly make mistakes at all.

See? It went in here and came out there and didn't even graze
a bone, so I wrapped my paw with gauze and tape and went back out
and got each and every rafter sat and toe-nailed into place,
which, since you asked, is what these scars are all about.