13

Cutting bread,
knife ghastly sharp
a kitchen devil that could
pare flesh from bone
I know now I cared more.
You'd moved on in months
pairing yourself with new
ones, telling your story
in whispered nights,
the coins of heartbreak
and despair paid out
for new love. I have not.
This means it meant more all along.
This means I meant it more.
And bread falls to the board
a perfect slice, knife catching light,
its wicked teeth.
I heft it hand to hand,
the weight makes it serious.