KITCHEN KNIFE

By Tamryn Spruill 

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​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          ​

Copyright © 2012-2021 Tamryn Spruill.