01/17

margarine knives

we stood at the crumbed counter
where ants carried fractions
towards their hideaways.
our walls teemed with them--
not just ants, but lady bugs 
& centipedes. i wanted to be
the clean glide. silver
& the smooth elbow. how a butter knife 
promises everything will be 
this easy. tornados of boys.
one is my boat like a spaceship.
a razor scrape on my ankle.
my mother & i ate each a half
of an english muffin. her fingers
like ladder rungs. her brown hair
pulled from her face 
by a crocodile clip. i wanted
to come apart in morsels.
be carried, funeral style away.
become part passageway part 
insect colony. but what is a family 
but a fridge door left open?
a sharing of hungers.
margarine as yellow as dandelions.
golden glow on the shoulder
of the knife. what else could be
so clear & vivid. my tongue 
like a doormat. we took turns 
knocking on each other's teeth.
i love her more now than ever.
regret that she has heard 
me enumerate all the ways 
i no longer want to be.
tell the ants we are delicious.
a mirror of a blade. is a knife
still a knife if it only asks
to sigh? more ants come
like necklaces. 

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