What It Can Do

I'm chopping vegetables. Nothing dramatic.

Carrots. An onion. The kind of task

you do without thinking,

until the moment you do think,

and the blade catches your thumb,

and suddenly you understand

that the thing in your hand

is not a tool.

It's a choice.

It's a choice the entire time.

The moment between slipping and pain

is longer than it should be.

The blade reflects the kitchen light.

I can see my face in it, distorted,

like the person holding it

isn't quite me. Like the person holding it

is someone else, someone who knows

what this object is capable of,

someone who's always known.

The blood is bright. Not much,

not deep, but enough to make it real,

to make the knife stop being theoretical,

to make my hand stop being

something I can ignore.

My mother used to keep the knives

in a block by the stove,

handles up, blades hidden.

She used to tell me to be careful,

and I used to nod, not understanding

that careful was the point,

that the knife was always waiting

for the moment I stopped being careful,

for the moment I thought

I knew what I was doing.

I wrap my thumb in paper towel.

The blood soaks through.

I wrap it again. Again.

The knife sits on the counter

like nothing happened.

Like it didn't just show me

what it can do.

Like it's not waiting

for the next time I forget

what it is.