Kitchen Safety

The kettle is screaming its one flat note.

I’m standing here holding a serrated blade,

remembering the morning I was twelve

and too hungry to wait for the toaster to pop.

The knife didn't bite the bagel first.

It found the knuckle of my left thumb,

a clean, white opening that didn't even bleed

until I saw the bone staring back.

Now it’s a zig-zag, a ridge of pale skin

that looks like a piece of fishing line

trapped under the surface of the hand.

I’ve carried it longer than I’ve known

the woman who bandaged it,

the one who told me to always cut

away from my own body.