Kitchen Counter Cut

The wet spot on the tile,

a brief slip, then my palm

against the cold edge. For a while,

just a sting. A false calm.

Then a bright line, thin as thought,

rose up. A bead of red, well-wrought,

sat on my skin, surprised and stark.

The faucet dripped a single mark

of time, so loud.

It felt like a small, private crowd

had gathered there, to see the way

such small things come to bleed, to say

we're boundary-thin, and easily undone,

just like that morning's early run.