Catastrophe with glass
What a thrill—my thumb instead of an onion. –Sylvia Plath
First, I drop the mustard
jar, glass and baby-shit-colored goo all over the floor
and I warily sluice this mess, gather, mop, sweep—
a roll of paper towels applied.
But after, when I pad barefoot into the kitchen,
and post-haste, step on a shard,
(later measured at 11 mm long and 4mm across the wide edge)
I feel stupidly shamefaced.
I briskly pull the shard, marveling at its enormity,
as fresh ruby blood pours from the deep within.
Pours and splatters, not a job for Brawny, and I long
for help, the bottom of my foot is so far away and
there is so much carpet and tile and rugs to traverse,
to scuttle through cabinets and drawers
for first aid supplies, which prove dreadfully inadequate
to the task. How can I be out of gauze? Will it ever stop?
But when I stumble into bed, pressure dressing intact—floors
can wait till tomorrow for blood patrol, bathroom rugs
soaking in cold water—I am thinking, thinking
how much I love living alone, how long can I hold out?