The Butcher Knife

I was a child when I crept downstairs

that night to lift the butcher’s knife and weigh

its possibilities. Despite what I

assumed about potential and ability,

it meant so much within my grateful hands.

The window light illuminated how

the quick and slick wit blade transformed

into a sturdy, balanced confidence.

                                                                                      

Its power never threatened me:

Instead, I was transfixed to see it work,

revealing, as I watched, the world’s insides,

those weary lessons hanging in their place,

the stories stacked on shelves, the dust refused

to settle from their constant references.

And when the child felt the footsteps sound

above, I was embarrassed until I saw

the blade reflecting my maturing face.

December 9