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ovenbird
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The box grater demands a sacrifice. It takes a bite of flesh from the knuckle of my right thumb and the blood spreads into a T. T for “trenchant.” T for “tourniquet.” T for the strap on my favourite patent leather shoes, lost to memory. I imagine bits of my thumb mixed in with the Parmesan. It’s fine. No one will know. I wrap my thumb tight in a paper towel and the blood seeps through. We eat our soup that might have traces of skin floating on the surface. Most days are like this. There’s always some way in which I’m about to be devoured. I should have used the Polysporin. This morning it hurts to bend the scabbing joint. The grater stands silent in the sink. Satiated.
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261008
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