My bread-knife’s both benign and sharp,
the kindest of my tools unless you’re loaf;
the sweet one kneaded with a touch of love
and baked to wheatly glutinous perfection,
but its steel is crocodile. a mourning blade,
a menace carver for my daily sustenance.
I cutlass slices with you, my sweetest sickle
each ’serrated tooth biting crumbs before
I spread the butter slowly in the freshly
opened wheat wound. I slice the cheddar
cheese and lay it to its rest on the bare
flesh of my slaughtered bread, because
a murder is magic of ordinary breakfasts.
Today we should write about “the magic of ordinary things for Gina who hosts at dVerse. Join us when you want.
December 12, 2018