Cautious intent, I describe my gaze
as “deep as the wound I gave you.”
Even beyond glasses, the dam is flooding,
but I know... I can't stop now.

This deed-- it hurts me.
My eyes, they sting.

I pull the knife from your flesh.

My mother arrived;
she inspected the damage.

“Don't cry,” she said unto me
as though I could help it.

Shoulders slumped,
head down,
eyes narrow,
my feet led me here.

The sink.

Translucent blood of
fatal wounds I gave to you
wash away like nothing
in a shallow whirlpool.

I brought my hand to my face
satisfied that the smell of
murder;
slaughter--
had left no traces of my deed.

I looked back and there you were:
battered;
slashed;
broken.
I carefully wiped my eyes--
wiped them free of tears.

To my mother, this was a job--
a task I never wished to undertake.

“Never again,” I said, “will I cut another onion.”

This will certify that the able work is completely original. Iris Stanley