What a Hand Does Next

The scissors lie open on the enamel tray,
a silver beak that will not feed.
Boiled water cools in the bowl;
rust clouds it, then thins.

The wrapper says sterile.
Nothing in the room obeys.

Tape lifts hair from skin
with its small white teeth.
Each sting arrives whole,
then passes.

No one says the word.
It turns by itself:
what was done,
what a hand does next.

One wrist rests in another’s palm.
Under the thumb, the pulse
knocks once, twice,
as if asking whether touch
is door or bandage.

Gauze unspools.
Cotton drinks what red it can
and leaves the rest
to air.

On the sill, roses loosen
their paper tongues.
A petal drops into the bowl
and takes the colour:

not blood, not flower,
something between
opening and proof.

By the second wrap,
the dispenser bites
the helper’s thumb.

A bead lifts there,
bright, almost formal.
The bandaged hand turns over
and receives it.

The tape does not choose.

Round wrist, round thumb,
cloth crosses cloth.
At the seam a petal catches,
red on white.

Both thumbs press
the tape-end flat
and lift away
with the same small sting.