Ode to the KnifeAdam Deutsch
Let’s let the teeth do the cutting for fingers attached to hands to wrist into dominant muscled arm motions. We can stand back, allowance of extension. Stainless tools of precision molding, our very arms with small parts, exact placement of hairs and veins. Where we transfer our energies could be exactly the same: a steak that buckles in tears to the waves underside of you, the blade. Then there’s fire, broiler. You’ll glide apart the medium rare. Metal meets meat. Meat holds metal, then parts. Meat, stabbed. Lifted to meet open mouth in head of meat. Meats meet, have met burn. Hot meat. Metal mangled meat. Flank. Chuck. Loin. Butcher. You, sir, ever present and left behind the cooled glass cases, the wielder of such cutlery. Is there a cot back there in the walk-in or under the counter below the magnetic strip holding steel? Do you use the spinning slicer blade as a mirror to shave in with a six inch utility, stain-wood handle, and fatty soap lather? You never spin that disc. You do it all by hand. It’s in your wrist. Good eye. Sharp steel and a block sized like your own sarcophagus. Every drop that soaks from meat goes into the block, every fall of the cleaver is your own knocking to get inside. There are no windows. No doors. No hinge or lid. Keep knocking. I know you want in. A home is on the inner side, cushier than this shop, short and tenderloin.
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