Jake Adam York

He sits, shirtless, still, as she digs the steel
from the cauterized wound. Morning 
flashes off the knife. He doesnít 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 heís grown into, one by one.

Steam curls where bacon rusts our eggs.
The radio whispers between the same old songs.
How the metal canít stay still. 

I fist my knife as she twists the blade.
A flash. A flash. I turn away.

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