Sport 39: 2011
Knife
Knife
I almost killed her. Twice,
perhaps three times. I was a dangerous child.
Her knife loves the best meat; hers is a generous slice.
She held onto her belly and as I grew so did the price.
Her stew unmistakably Slavic—a little gamy, a touch wild.
I almost killed her. Twice.
The butcher knows his job and so does she. Rice,
dark rings of onion cooked until mild.
Her knife loves the best meat, hers is a generous slice.
Do not let it fester, she says dishing out advice.
When was the last time you smiled?
I almost killed her. Twice.
Blood gives colour to our conversations. What better to dice
an afternoon of grief, so neatly thawed and piled
—her knife cuts through, hers is a generous slice.
Her hands rush around the kitchen—two pregnant mice.
I’m all that’s left of her tears; flesh and blood dried
and clotting. I could have killed her. Twice.
Her knife loves even the toughest cuts. Hers is a generous slice.