It was the knife that warned of mortality
when it pulled ink wells from skin cells,
when it pulled ink wells from skin cells,
And it catches you off guard, every time
how sharp it is, how plain the sound of pain.
how sharp it is, how plain the sound of pain.
A ringing, an overtone droll and you pull
your heavy hand away from the dish rag,
your heavy hand away from the dish rag,
always startling how easily it slices.
The human skin so much like butter.
The human skin so much like butter.
—ECW
ECW Poetry 