G Sharp Kitchen Knives Poem by John W. McEwers

We ain't been but fools
and the two of us
barely out of the tux and dress
the petals and cake still blotting our vision
like we just stared at the sun

we stand in the food school
of our newlywed home
while our knives
dig through the flesh.
We are the lucky ones.

You whistle the theme from Cheers
as the blade strokes
like a violin bow
against the cutting board
through a dead bird's thigh.

It wasn't a graceful bird
like the falcons or humming ones
that pop to mind when you dream flight,
the elegant crash of an owl
on the crawling beast below.

It was a chicken.

As we char the D student of avian society
in a cast iron pan
your mother hand-us-downed,
I still grip the knife,
anticipating the crash.

I may crawl
but my talons would be just as sharp as yours.

I saw a robin
pluck a worm
from the side yard
in the early morning
dew covered grass.

A quick tug, and all but the writhing
was over.

We ate a lot of chickens.
You whistled a lot of songs.
Until my knife was dull enough.
and you ran off with my kids.