i think of apu every time I sharpen our knives.
could be his hands,
holding the stone
cupping the water
testing the blade.
chemtatrawta chuan chem a tat rawt rawt ah
but they aren’t:
are flabby and soft
and haven’t killed
in 13 years.
here the chicken are slaughtered by specialists,
and our hands only bear the memory of the blood.
there is pow…er, pow…er, wonder working power, in the blo…od…
and his hands slit throats
and plucked feathers
and gave thanks for our food;
while these hands?
these hands only sharpen knives.