What It Is

Sunday morning with a blade

I've held a thousand times before.

But now the light has made

me see what I've been holding for.

Not just a tool, but something more—

a thing, pure steel and sharp and real,

my reflection in it split and tore

by everything this edge could peel.

The tomato waits on the board,

whole and round and patient there.

All the things I could afford

to split open, bright and bare.

I've never understood

until this morning's gleaming sight

what lay within my hand—understood

that tools are sharper than we might.