Between

The edge of the envelope was sharper

than it had any right to be.

A line appeared between my thumb and finger,

thin as a pen mark you could barely see.

The blood was patient coming through.

It rose slowly, as if it knew

that something from three years past,

marked Final Notice, had to last

this way—a thin red line

to mark what still could bleed and whine.

A paper cut this small shouldn't pain

the way it does. Shouldn't stay

in my mind like this. The envelope

smelled like filing cabinets, like hope

that turned to bills I couldn't pay.

Something so thin I almost didn't see it

opened me. That's all. Just let it

be what it is: a small cut, barely there,

but bleeding anyway. I'm still aware

of where it is.