SHARPER KNIVES

by Matt Poindexter

She’s old enough to hold a paring knife
and understand the weight of a blade

falling through food. It drops and hair stands up
on my skin as I see

a fat tomato cleaved in two,
seeds leaking on the board.

She’s old enough to keep her left hand clear.
My daughter lets the knife sleep

in the soft cradle of her fingers
and rocks it again and again

through our dinner. She learns
to trim fat from raw flesh,

lets nothing but muscle remain.
She’s old enough to clean her own blade.

An edge left dull is danger,
more slip-prone than the steel kept sharp.

I keep my child well-honed. She’s old enough
to know how my hands got so scarred.

My daughter angles the edge toward me and slices
like I showed her to. I do not flinch.

Matt Poindexter’s (he/him/his) poems have appeared in the Best New Poets series, Chicago Quarterly Review, storySouth, Greensboro Review, and elsewhere. He previously served as the editor of Inch (Bull City Press). He lives in Hillsborough, North Carolina.