The Steps of Pain
A poem
Pain is the afternoon
I sliced my index finger
chopping onions
with the thick edge
of that serrated steak knife
reserved for Sunday dinner.
I could see the blade pierce
I knew the pain was coming
my breath stalled
my body tightened
preparing for impact.
All this took place in a nanosecond —
a fraction of a second
of a second
of a second.
And when the pain came, it came quick —
a slight sting
followed by a tingle
that led to the burn.
A trickle of red slid down my finger, a part of me
— falling away
departing
leaving
me
alone
With you, it was the same.
On Wednesday, you were there —
in the passenger’s seat, your eyes closed
a sparkling ray of sunlight stretched across your shoulder
and landed on my thigh.
Twelve hours later, you were gone,
and I ricocheted through
—the puncture
— the sting
— the burn.
And it is here the endings digress:
The puncture in my index finger
eventually scabbed over.
You are still gone.
