Last night
I cut the tip of my
index finger off
Blood gushes
into the sink
cold water does nothing but dilute
the truth of this red
how could such a small surface
trigger such pain
arresting the nerves
into a coiled knot.
My face is now wet
as a cool stream of tears
soothes my cheeks
I imagine the bullets
lodged onto their bodies
the holes
the gashes
the pellets
the pain
the pain
the absolute pain…
of the ones on the streets in Iran
a collective lacrimation.
A white gauze
entombs the finger
a tape hugs it in place
hiding the truth
of this red.
Yet we know
these scars last forever
and we know
there is a fire
breathing beneath the ash.
Tara Aghdashloo
February 4, 2026