Kitchen Knife
Tamryn Spruill
like my father
before my child eyes
outside –
slicing open round fish bellies with a
kitchen knife
letting drop into a white
worm-stained bucket the pale
blood-tinged innards
now, i am the fish
but breathing into the pain of
serrated edges
i gut myself
yank through sensitive parts
wholeheartedly spill out
just, everything –
an entrails offering
it was after the night i dreamed you had HIV
a bonding ritual so tender yet perverse
and with good intention & cuts of surgical precision
but for no good-enough reason
except the wish for a little grace
because your head floats balloon-like &
you (unfortunately)
end at the wrist:
all detachment & no hands
with which to grab
before my child eyes
outside –
slicing open round fish bellies with a
kitchen knife
letting drop into a white
worm-stained bucket the pale
blood-tinged innards
now, i am the fish
but breathing into the pain of
serrated edges
i gut myself
yank through sensitive parts
wholeheartedly spill out
just, everything –
an entrails offering
it was after the night i dreamed you had HIV
a bonding ritual so tender yet perverse
and with good intention & cuts of surgical precision
but for no good-enough reason
except the wish for a little grace
because your head floats balloon-like &
you (unfortunately)
end at the wrist:
all detachment & no hands
with which to grab
