KITCHEN KNIFE
By 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 |
|
Copyright © 2012-2021 Tamryn Spruill.