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Blood On My Hand

The first summer of our love

Came with heavy monsoons.

I was learning to cook for you,

And cut my finger

With the kitchen knife,

Because you were secretly

Blowing kisses to me

Behind your mother’s back.

It was such a small wound,

But there was blood on my hand.

You froze in the hall,

And stared at the blood

Oozing lazily out of the broken skin.

There was horror on your face

As if the flood outside

Was not catastrophic enough.

Remember?

You rushed to the street

Abandoned all intelligence,

And waded into the water,

Ran to the corner convenience store,

And bought a pack of Band-Aids.

You treated the wound

Like it would kill me,

And the blood was already

Almost gone.

It was only a small cut,

And the act of putting

Some antiseptic tape on it –

And how you did it with worry

In your eyes,

Your clothes soaking wet,

Your hair over one eye,

Your nose pinched in concentration.

We sat on the porch,

I watched the rain

And you bandaged my finger.

That first summer of our love.

I cut my finger with the kitchen knife today

Because I was juggling a phone

And cutting eggplant for dinner.

It was a deep wound

And there was blood on my hand.

I screamed in frustration;

Not for my pain,

But for the dinner that I was

Preparing for you.

Honey, can you get me some bandage?

I cut my hand, I said.

You flipped through a channel.

Where were you looking?

Be careful with these things –

You are worse than the kids, you said.

It’s in the bathroom,

Can you get it please? I said.

Oh, put away the eggplant,

I don’t like it anyway,

We’ll go out for dinner, you said.

I dumped dinner in the garbage,

And went to the bathroom.

Sitting on the edge of the cold bathtub,

I cleaned the cut and bandaged it.

Then we all went to House of Chang.

You never asked about the cut on my finger.

It is healing now, without you.