The Folded Heart. Michael Collier

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      and the wide morgue of the medicine

      cabinet open. The order of gauze,

      tape and cotton on the glass shelves.

      The flesh-colored bandage held

      in a tight roll by its butterfly clasp.

      Dusting of talc. Flocking of toothpaste.

      The white soft ridges of soap in the empty

      dish. And his other hand under the rush of cold

      water. The sink filling with rosy, thinned

      blood. The blue razor blade he was trying

      to fit into the cabinet’s disposal slot

      lies like a fish fin on the pink ceramic counter.

      Then resting the cut hand on the rim of the sink,

      fingers held up to slow the flow of blood,

      my uncle fits the bottle in his mouth.

      The exaggerated squint of one eye

      as his teeth tighten on the plastic cap

      and his good hand strains, like a wrench,

      until the seal on the vial breaks. Then his tongue,

      ferrous with the leakage, sputters and spits,

      his lips wiping the bitterness on his shoulder,

      the back of his wrist. His head crazy

      with the mistake. And the water he cups

      in his hands, brackish with blood and iodine,

      is the color of the veil that shrouds

      his life and its absurd diminishment

      there in the bathroom of his sister’s house.