_The Tomato Slicer_
silk, it was, that slit the fingers
half-frayed and bloody
flesh like ham
pulsing red and white and unbuttoned
the blade sunk into it like cheese
but slid through like milk
slick with liquid exactness
did it cut a nerve
or lung or vertebrae
that kept the victim standing still
with empty pleasure deep set in eyes?
and a smile: smug? vacant? accidental?
warm dark ropes spilt fresh over the wrist
where muscles twitched and artery shoved
up more of plasma, water, and secretions unspeakable
rushing through the hand
with open palm, open skin.
Remarkable really, how perfectly the dermis came untied.
So they all stood staring at the extraordinary line,
Puddle spreading at their feet.
Someone in short distance calls for the hospital, a mop;
tells the new girl to wash the tomato slicer.