the fresh wound

i stare at the cut along

the fat of my

thumb, palm up,

a nail having grabbed

the willing

skin and pulling it open.

i rinse the swirl of

crimson down the sink,

then wrap a rag

around the new wound

and let the blood

soak through.

it's heavy and dark,

then another, and another.

i hold it tight, 

trying to squeeze it to

a stop, then go

back to work.

there is always work to

go to, when healing.