Wash the Knives

As a general rule,
at least
wash the knives
you thrust into count
less lives 
before you claim
another’s.

Muse or
your mother,

those red cells ain’t cookie
cutter
found in every
suburban cupboard here to
Alaska.

And I’d hate to fight
infections,

shifty eyed inflections,
masters of elicited
reactions

in the
wake of kitchen blades.

I’d hate to
fall a victim,

heir to kingdom come
and all thy
come undone

after surviving so
many attempts to
rearrange
the human
face.

So wash the old favourites,
the switchblades you’ve taken
the utmost care
to keep sharp,
and place in a drawer.

You’ve outgrown their
ancient appeals.

You don’t need them anymore.

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