The Weight of the Edge

The screen blurred the details,

a kitchen knife, they said,

in a fist. And it just

took me back.

Six years old. The block

of wood, my father's hand

guiding mine, how to cut

an apple.

Not the dull butter-knife,

but a real one, honed steel.

It had weight, a sudden heft

I hadn't expected.

And the edge, a clean, cold line

that could part fruit flesh

or skin. I saw it then,

the easy slice, the red bloom.

A power, small and terrifying,

resting in my palm.