In the foaming murk of the sink,
a knife grasped with too much vigor,
and the wrinkled finger cut —
no violence in it: a deep
but painless parting of tissue —
cells smoothly separated
from cells, and the few claret drops
the tap dissolves. The serrated blade
remains apathetic, innocent
in this small kitchen calamity,
an agent of happenstance.
And so we dive back in to fish
around this Grand Dishpan, seeking
to scour, to make clean and new,
fighting shy of that lurking edge,
and that final excision.