The blade curved around my jaw,
then, suddenly, pinched me
on the left cheek.
No problem, I thought,
happens all the time.
I looked back in the mirror:
the gash was an inch wide,
and was starting to swell with the red;
It burned badly; I clenched my teeth.

I put down the razor, shaving cream
still over my face, and stepped out.
I didn't look, but felt blood dripping
down my neck, onto my chest.
I felt confused, as if in a daze.
Babe, I said, Babe.
You looked up from the eggs
you were scrambling; the fork
then hit the floor with a clang.

You put your palm against you mouth,
as if stifling an awful scream,
and ran towards me.
Do we have peroxide? You asked.
No. Rubbing alcohol? I don't think so.
I saw that you were scared, and felt bad.
It still pinched, but I smiled at you:
I'll be OK ... but what a stupid way to die...
I wasn't even slitting my wrists!
You wanted to laugh, but couldn't.

Your hand was shaking,
but you put it against my cheek,
right on the wound.
I could feel the blood starting to clot;
And, somehow, I felt relieved,
with you standing close to me,
holding me like that,
as if trying to stop the bleed,
even though you knew you couldn't.
Your hand smelled like the cinnamon toast
You've already made for us.
I kissed your other hand,
and we stood there for an hour.