Knife in a Small Room
                                                                                   
Glenn Moss



I remember seeing my eyes on the blade

Following me as I stepped back

A double shadowed moon pulling tides of family madness

Wide open, matched by my mouth that couldn’t scream

Seeing my eyes slide off the blade as it slashed up

Then down

Across the pleading palm of my father

A flash red flood appears

As if my father held an arroyo in his hand, waiting for this storm

Drowning the cries of my mother, shock of my father

I watch the knife fall from my brother’s hand, my eyes wet and blinking

My brother and the blood runs

Palms still outstretched, my father turns to my mother

Quietly she leaves, returning with hydrogen peroxide and gauze

Covering not cleansing, the moment and memories are bandaged

Denial is the scar I fear as they pick up the knife to wash it

I will watch my mother use that knife to cut brisket for Passover

Smiling, as she trims the fat

I put the wet butcher paper in the garbage

“Why is this night different from any other night”

“It isn’t”, I say to myself

My turn to laugh