October 20, 2011 - late morning

she tries to stanch the bleeding with conversation
her words, like fingers
frostbitten and stiff,
wet-slick, warm on the surface now with the blood,
cold where the blood no longer flows
cold inside
she tries to patch her wound with contemplation
silently reproaching the knife
for its hilt,
she smooths out her detachment, pressing it to
frozen, bleeding flesh
but soon, already, always, it swells with her blood