The Weight of the Edge

I was six when my father handed it over,

not the butter knife with its rounded, polite face,

but the carbon steel blade, cold as October,

heavy enough to demand its own space.

He told me to slice the apple in half.

I put my thumb on the spine to push it through,

and felt the grain surrender with a snap,

a clean, wet opening I finally knew.

It wasn't a toy or a piece of the table.

It was a boundary, a hard, silver line

that whispered how easily I might be able

to unmake the things I once thought were mine.