What It Actually Is

I've had the knife for seven years.

I know the balance of it,

the way the handle settles

into the cup of my palm.

Tonight I was halving an onion.

Nothing. Dinner.

The blade went through clean,

the two halves rocking apart on the board,

face-down, wet.

And I stopped.

My knuckles were pale on the handle.

I was looking at my hand

the way you look at a word

you've written so many times

it stops meaning anything.

I set it down on the board.

I looked at the onion.

I looked at my hand.

I've been picking this up

for seven years.

The onion was already going

brown at the edges.

Dinner.