Poem 49

on accidentally cutting my hand during dishes
You never know how easily
The knife breeches
But it does and the blood always comes
Filling the imperfections of fingertips
And fortune-deep palm lines.
Quickly, like the pulse of fight or flight,
But there’s no escaping your own torn skin.
Nausea. In blade, out blade.
Always startling how easy it slices
The human skin so much like butter.

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