Cut

I cut my finger removing the seed

from an avocado. The too-sharp knife

sliced through skin to bone. I held it to bleed

in the white sink, like red ink. Daily life

hides a strangeness that's easily ignored

the clumsy illusion of 'I'.  Somehow

the blood flows, and then of its own accord

stops. If the hand I claim as mine now

puts finger to lips, I taste my inside

for the tongue's own knowing. The one good hand 

puts butter on bread, mouth takes bites

chews, swallows.  When I find I'm satisfied

who did decide? Is it in my command

the hand that picks up the pen and writes?