My heart is a kettle — crying out
against heat and pressure
when he takes my hand
after I jabbed it while cleaning,
spilling blood deep in the cabinet
under where we keep the coffee beans.
My heart is now nearly boiling over,
as he wraps a bandage
from the first aid kit by the register
around my injured finger,
smoothing the tape down with his thumb,
locking his eyes with mine.
Don’t tell my husband, but I think I love
everyone I’ve ever known.
Gail Nezvigin is a visual artist who lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. She explores emotionally complex narratives, both in visual art and in writing. Her poetry has previously been featured in the Stanford Continuing Studies Writers Spotlight, June 2021.