He said that he’d stumbled into a wall or fallen.
But likely the cut on his shoulder
was caused by something more serious.
He stood up abruptly, reaching for some
photographs on a high shelf
that he wanted to hold. The bandage
loosened and the cut opened.
I dressed his shoulder again, but was slow
in finishing, because it caused him no pain
and because I liked to look at his blood. That blood
was the source of my longing for him.
When he left, I found at the foot
of his chair a bloodied cloth, cotton,
a cloth that looked ready for the rubbish bin
and that I took to my lips
and held there for a long time –
the blood of longing on my lips.