Poetry Chapbook 18

Bread Knife

I am a sword in the hands of a child
the slicer and dicer and tamer of mild
a dozen or more tiny scimitar edges
waiting to cut any monster to wedges.

In the hands of the trained I will bite in defence
aligned with a forearm in cut increments
a simple punch sees me cutting up skin
if you don’t see coming you’ll know where I’ve been

For now I’ll sleep under a pillow of down
protecting a child from the monsters in town
One day she’ll forget me and then with a grin
I’ll open her up from her leg to her chin.