the cut

your hand
feels the cut
of the sharpest
knife that gleams
in the kitchen
drawer. the blood
is rich and red
as it laps
your thumb
and palm.
the cold water
rinses it clean
but the blood
still comes.
and standing there
like you are
you remember
the time your mother,
distracted,
cut her thumb
in the same way,
when you were
a child
and how she
stood there and said,
like you. it's fine.
i'll be okay.