I tried to cut off the tip of my finger today,
and went into a tiny panic because of the drip, drip.
Considered calling into town to try to find the husband
who was probably at a pub, and who could do what, exactly?
Hold my hand above my heart?
Refresh the bloody rag?
Perform a nifty jig for my amusement?
Well, no, I did not call Matt Molloys or The Porter House
and ask if there was a bearded middle-aged man with glasses
sitting in the corner reading. As if.
Instead I applied pressure and sat calmly until all was well.
Then I wrote poem of the day #2:
A slip of the knife and the skin peels open,
releasing a quick red flow. How easily
the wrapping on this bodily vessel tears;
so much the epidermis must contain:
each organ with its lifetime assignment,
the bones with their rigging, the ease of tendons.
And O, tender brain!
Once it clots, I patch the incision
with my clumsy wrong hand,
grateful for this mechanism
that staunches the river from my finger.
Acutely aware of the possibilities
of the blade, the meager protection
afforded by physiology. Alive,
I am alive and bleeding.