The First Real One

It was someone else's kitchen,

someone else's cutting board,

and I picked up the knife without thinking

and then thought about it.

The weight was different —

not heavier, distributed differently,

like it had an opinion

about where my hand was supposed to be.

I was supposed to be cutting onions.

I stopped with the blade flat on the board,

knuckles white, for no reason

I could explain to anyone in the room.

There's a version of this that goes back further —

someone's hand over mine on a handle,

the cold of it, the length,

the way the air around a sharp thing

changes.

This wasn't that knife.

But my wrist remembered the weight.

The balance. The particular quiet

before the cut.

I finished the onions.

Put the knife down carefully,

with two hands,

like I was returning it somewhere.