Caren Krutsinger Poet Narrative

I Hear you Clean Knives

she was terrified of knives
had been fearful of them since she was a child
her children laughed about it
“We never had a steak knife in our home.
We had to cut a side of beef with a butter spoon.”

When October crept near, her fright pranced on overdrive
Her nightmares were not repeated, but we all knew
they had something to do with blood, gore, death and knives
I was a fairly new neighbor, and even I knew about it
Because this was a small town

The things people knew about each other made my hair stand on end.
I had never lived in a place like this; I was a metropolitan chit.
She asked if she could come see me.
“I hear that you clean knives,” she said.
I was astonished, astounded, and intrigued.
“I can, I do, and I might,” I told her.

The knife she showed me had flesh, blood and red hair on it.
The same color hair as her missing husband.
I pretended not to notice and cleaned it as she stared.

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