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PoetryEarly Twenties

I cut my fruit with knives
and have been doing so
since I was a child
when my mother
began to trust me with
such sharp objects.

I part the flesh
of peaches, delicately
with the blade
sometimes stabbing
the dismembered piece
with the point before eating.

The ritual is soothing
I change the patterns
of my cuts, sometimes
perfect quarters, or I
sliver at random dropping
fruit onto smooth plates.

If left unarmed
I will attack an apple
with my teeth
though it feels savage to me
preferring more sophisticated
forms of violence.

Left with my fruit
from the soft to the hard
I cut without prejudice
and eat the flesh slowly
dripping the juice
I don't catch on the plate.

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