Kitchen Knives Sing
The kitchen knives sing sweetly in their block,
each blade a promise, silver-sharp and clean.
I slice the onions. How the housewives mock.
The cutting board bears every daily shock—
potatoes, carrots, flesh that’s never seen.
The kitchen knives sing sweetly in their block.
My mother wound her life around the clock,
her hands performing tasks both sharp and mean.
I slice the onions. How the housewives mock.
The gleaming steel, the drawer I dare not unlock,
these edges know what I have never been.
The kitchen knives sing sweetly in their block.
Each dinner calls for blood, demands I stock
the table with my hours, carved and keen.
I slice the onions. How the housewives mock.
The blade that feeds can also cut and shock—
this double life, this edge between, between.
The kitchen knives sing sweetly in their block.
I slice the onions. How the housewives mock.
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