Box Cutter

The Windex leaves a blue streak

across the bathroom mirror,

and for a second, the light

catches the underside of my wrist.

It’s a ridge of pale, tough silk,

a topographical map

of a Saturday ten years ago

when I thought I knew

the right way to open a crate.

The blade slipped

and I just watched it happen,

more surprised than hurt

by how much red

could live inside a person.

I’ve known this mark

longer than I’ve known you.

It’s the most loyal thing

I still have left.