I watch her long fingers
Grip the knife
And slowly spread butter
Across the surface of the bread,
The clatter of silverware,
The chatter of voices,
This cold Sunday in March,
Unheard except for hers,
Her hands so steady
While mind still shake,
Unnerved by her stare,
her meaning lost
in a fog like haze
sealing me into
this lonely harbor
from which I have
no will to sail,
too weak to resist her,
no matter where she
says I should go,
an Avalon and me King Arthur
with a self-inflicted wound,
bleeding into my eggs
as the knife moves
in and out,
leaving its guilty residue
showing in her eyes,
spreading over both of us
until too thin to scrape,
shredding me
layer by layer
with each cruel stroke.
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