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Hobby knife sunk in a former yogurt container
full of honey, sticky with ant promise

Line of destiny, written in beginnings
split like sourdough before the oven

Capitate, third metacarpal, wet in their twisting beds
unbraided with gentle violence from tendon, from flesh

Sap from a bloodwood tree, from a woman
bitter syrup glazed on pancake colored thighs

Bone cannot replace butter; the hand
without bone cannot close.

Take it.

It is a gift.