Manual Dexterity

They wheel him in asleep and she begins
to cut his throat a little. Finds the vein
to open, to thread in the line. She spills her
balms into his heart's first chamber.

I've dropped my drink and kneel down in the kitchen
to mop a puddle of glass shards and bourbon.
That quick my hand is opened and my fingers
run with blood and burn with wasted liquor.

Or she is painlessly flaying his face,
carefully freeing the seventh nerve's lace-
work of feeling. She bends over the man on the bed
and mends him. Her brilliant hands are wet and red.

Or your hands run down my back and hips
while fine things are being done with kisses.
Afterward we lie damp and flushed,
spilled like opened gifts across our bed.