Poem on the Verge of Passing Out From Blood Loss

Tonight at the poetry meeting,
I should warn you about the cheese plate:
Be careful of the sharp cheddar.
It really is sharp. I sliced my finger wide open
Trying to spread it on a cracker.

Here are some rules (and one demand)
For dealing with a cut finger
At a social gathering:

Rule One: No matter how much blood
You are losing, do not try to refill your
Veins with many glasses of red wine.

Rules Two: If your pen goes dry,
No matter the temptation, do not
Write out the remainder of the poem
In blood. The Devil is always lurking,
Out of sight, when poets meet, and He
Will pounce on any and all red words
As proof that you’ve sold your soul
To Him (and ninety-nine percent
Of the time, He’s not wrong).

Rule Three: Under no circumstances
Should you risk bringing communicable
Diseases into your host’s home. In fact,
Be incommunicative to everyone in your life:
Your spouse, shrink, friends and parents,
Even your bartender. Drive them away with
Your stark silence. Trust me, it’s for the best.

Rule Four: Wear your best red top
With those jeans. Yes, I know it may
Be an egregious fashion mistake, but
At least nobody will notice that it’s
Your finger’s time of the month.

Rive Five: Stay away from bulls, lest they
See the red and try to run you down.
Give them a wide berth. Don’t even come
Close to their shit on the ground. In fact,
Avoid bullshit altogether. Be brutally honest.

And, finally, the one demand:
You all need to look at me,
Attend my words and recognize
That it wasn’t just my finger
That got cut, and it wasn’t just
My epidermis that started bleeding...

...It was my heart.

—Isaiah Pittman