If it’s a poem
You want,
Take a knife. . .
—Charles Simic
When my mind was sliced open
and I could not read or write,
I carried knives to the whetstone
and honed them: paring knife
removes the skin, bares raw fruit
to air and light. Bowie knife guts
a deer carcass, penknife sharpens pencil lead.
Switchblade snaps out from the boot toe
guides a high kick to the throat.
Butter knives smear soft fat.
For meat, the cleaver splits tendon
and shank, scrapes blood from the bone.
I tested the heft of each one in my palm,
tried their blades against the air.
Then I tore dark hunks of bread,
pulled them apart with my bare hands.
from Dear AllFind more by Maggie Anderson at the library
Copyright © 2017 Maggie Anderson
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.