The Cut

Your uncle bent to his plate

with the precision of a man who'd been taught

that looking up was a kind of loss.

His jaw locked down tight—

you could see the muscle clench and release,

clench and release,

a rhythm like morse code

spelling out everything he wouldn't say.

The knife made its sound against the china,

metal on white, deliberate as a drum,

he cut the meat into pieces

smaller than necessary,

each slice exact, controlled,

as if precision could be a form of prayer,

as if a perfect angle

could somehow keep the world

from falling apart at the seams.

His knuckles went white

where his fingers gripped the silverware.

Forty-three years old

and still performing this—

the discipline of small motions,

the performance of being fine,

of being whole,

of being the kind of man

who doesn't look up at dinner

when his marriage is leaving him.

The food on his plate grew cold.

He kept cutting.

You kept watching.

Neither of you spoke,

which was exactly how he wanted it—

two men at a table,

one of them falling apart,

the other one counting the times

he could bring the fork to his mouth

and still look like he had it all under control.