What I Do

I sharpen the knife, slice the fruit.  

The juice slicks my hands, slight sting.  

I say yes when asked, no never—  

or always, but my mouth wields steel.  

Each step forward carves a line,  

each word settles heavy as stone.  

I sweep the floor, pick up shards,  

I lay the table, spine upright, aware.  

What I feel, it burns and fades.  

I watch it, unopened letters, floating by.  

What I think scatters like ash,  

a wind-blown ghost of intention.  

But what I do—place bread, clean hinge,  

place hand on shoulder, press it firm—  

this I leave behind, thick root,  

my shadow planted, my only self.