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She was only seventeen years old but she’d been watching men for a long time, the way they acted as if they knew the answers to questions before they were asked, as if they carried the answers in their mouths and trousers.
Poetry in motion
How she loved knives, their smooth power, their simple logic, their opening and opening of flesh. Not to hurt but to feed. Opening flesh could be a gift. Butchers could be kind, loving, spurred by generosity.
It was strange, she thought, how you could live all your life in a home defined by people who loved you and took care of you and shared ancestors with you and yet did not entirely see you, people whom you protected by hiding yourself.
