There are many things to make a tourniquet out of.
A plastic bag isn’t the best.
But when she’s crying on the phone
Saying you need to come
And the traffic lights seem to hold you back
And the elevator has never been so slow
And you say a silent prayer that that door is unlocked
So that when you finally get there
You don’t have to try to break it down.
And then she’s there, on the ground
And you don’t want to step in the blood.
It shouldn’t matter,
But you don’t want to step in it.

A plastic bag is close
And when you tie it around a spoon
You can get it tight around an arm.
You aren’t sure how tight it should be
You aren’t sure about anything.
There must have been a door
And an elevator
And stoplights
You’re trying to recall them
When you pull up to the wrong entrance,
The one that’s supposed to be for the ambulance
You don’t leave until they take her.
Then you can pull away to park
In some 2 hour zone,
For as long as it takes her.
The run back over sheets of ice
Feels like running into the abyss
You aren’t sure if you did the right thing
You aren’t sure how bad it is.

The plastic bag is in the trash.
She’s lying on a hospital bed,
Crisscrossed black lines
A new design on her arm,
Like a tattoo you have removed
In 5-7 days.
She says it’s your fault.
You did this.
You ruined this.
You didn’t save this.
Maybe she’s right.
You try not to step on her words
Because she needs to say them,
But you can’t really hear,
Because the idea of what could have happened
Is still ringing in your ears.
The sound of What If
So much louder than shouts.
So much crueler than blame.
But What If isn’t What Is.
And nothing else is important.
Nothing really matters,
Except for a hospital bed, three lines of sutures, and a plastic bag.