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Breakfast Jake Adam York
He sits, shirtless, still, as she digs the steel from the cauterized wound. Morning flashes off the knife. He doesn’t say a word. Not graveyard. Not lucky. How iron reaches out for iron. He keeps his quiet as she cuts the barb of night from his arm. As morning combs his hair, molten light burning through the grey his father left in photos he’s grown into, one by one. Steam curls where bacon rusts our eggs. The radio whispers between the same old songs. How the metal can’t stay still. I fist my knife as she twists the blade. A flash. A flash. I turn away. |
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