Sara Watson
Theories of the Butterknife in the Bathtub

I'm not planning on asking you
Why there's a butter knife in the bathtub
There must be some reason
Which you consider to be rational
Maybe you slap hot wax on your thighs with it
Ripping at the roots of the black hair
Maybe you stare at yourself in the little
Slab of mirror
Maybe it's at the root of the bile scent
Clawing down your esophagus
Yes, I'd appreciate it if you kept it
Somewhere else.

Unrefined

Her words are
Diction defined.
Drawn down from a
Pressed Faulkner novel
That she never actually read,
She picks up a soft quill
In her orderly chamber,
Writes a word,
Dips her pen and writes another,
Weaving quilts of flowers and divine foods
In her strange smooth hand.
I collapse
Into illegibility rambled
Over the crush of a Dubliner.
She plucks her quill
From the nape of my neck.
Miss manners replies,
"Dear, dear, do not fret,"
And then calls me "rude"
When I slap away her quilts
Of gooey, sterile warmth
From my naked, torn, winter body.

Back to Issue 1, 1999