Steel and Bone

The cheddar is a cold, yellow block.

I should have watched the clock.

The knife went wide and bit the air

stopping just short of where

the knuckle turns to bone.

I am suddenly alone

with the weight of the metal.

That serrated edge in the fan’s dull glow

reminds me of things I used to know.

It isn't for bread or a simple slice.

It doesn't offer much advice.

It is just weight and a sharpened side,

and a hand with nowhere to hide.