Wednesday, April 1, 2020


After an unfortunate kitchen accident
involving my food processor, a small blowtorch
and an egg,
I seemed to be missing half of my left index finger,
and there was a copious volume of blood spurting upwards
like a Las Vegas fountain,
covering my gray kitchen countertop, the utensils and appliances thereon,
my white-tiled floor, and my own shaking, queasy self.
My ears ringing, my head spinning,
I couldn’t find my phone.
I wondered if I could actually bleed out from this wound
and if my husband would return
to find my body drained on the kitchen floor
being feasted upon by our cats.
And in these moments of fear and doubt and resignation,
words filled my mind,
the most beautiful phrase ever invented,
composed in God-language,
and I knew that if this was the only thing
I ever wrote in my life,
it would be shared around the world,
and I would be immortal.
So I used my bleeding stump of a finger
to write the words on my sunshine yellow kitchen wall,
and when I was finished,
I slumped to the floor,
and everything went black.

My husband returned home in the nick of time,
wrapped my injury in a kitchen towel,
called 911,
and I was rushed to the hospital.
When I regained consciousness
and my presence of mind,
I asked him if he had read
what I had written in my own blood
on the wall
because it was the greatest thing I had ever done,
but I could no longer remember the words.
He looked away, embarrassed,
and said, “You weren’t in your right mind.
It didn’t make any sense, so
I quickly washed it away
while you were being loaded into the ambulance.
Something about a spoon, I think.
A spoon and a helicopter.
But the good news is,
I found the top half of your finger
hidden in a cat bed.
They reattached it successfully,
and you’ll have no problems writing again.”

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