this knife has no polish you say, one hand 
around the handle, one hand under the blade. 

I’m sorry, I say – I offer. am I 
sorry for not handing you the power to 

easily slice the fruit? for making it harder? 
you open it and it seeps sour honey. 

I wasn’t even sure which you I was talking to, a real 
person or a dream déjà vu – surely a man, though.

now I remember, and yes, you are my new favourite                                       
butcher 
for I gave you the knife but not the wounding power                              

now I am the lemon                                                                                       
swaying, 
sunny side up 
waiting – aching – for you to operate: 

a sterilised needle, a slippery surface. 

but how gladly I misjudge comfort                                                                      
and hand spin it into intimacy                                                                          
 
when the phantom buzz of the bee in my pocket
stings more than your skilful silence 

when trust is the key to a million broken locks 
you don’t   even   care   to   open 

let me take back the knife, then. 
it’s not too late I’m not too open –  

Originally published on Phi Magazine: The Power Issue, Spring 2023