Friends Potluck
from Out With Lanterns, a daily poetry practice
At the island, I fill my plate. A golden croissant beseeches me, so I pick up a knife to halve it. Not my dull, well-known, worn-down knife, it slices fast through buttery layers, races down to my middle finger. Cut, I pull back, say nothing, turn gasp into laughter, smile at a joke, rinse my hand in the sink, decide without deciding, to wrap the deep wound and not say a word. Lucky, the cocktail napkins are red. I chat, apply pressure, switch out the napkin now and then. It is an ailment to be so familiar with hurting in silence.
