F U L L ♪
Nov 14
A butterknife stranded in Bethlehem
The knife longs to cut the bread
but it’s made only to spread butter
It does this well, the finest butter-spreader
but it aches to carve,
to slice
to cut into flesh,
to wound a finger
Instead, it’s used for playful jest
for jokes about murder, pretend play of a police officer
The best it could do is to touch fire
to burn a careless child’s hand as a mother’s punishment
This butter knife wishes to be more
more than itself.
it stares at a picture of Mary
with her tender eyes,
the best of mothers
the bearer of a miracle
who too longed to be more
more than a vessel
The knife endures
just as Mary endured
knowing she would never be more than
the mother of a prophet—
her destiny defined by his
her love both
sacred
and
heavy
tinged with a quiet soul-sucking envy.
The knife longs to cut the bread
but it’s made only to spread butter
It does this well, the finest butter-spreader
but it aches to carve,
to slice
to cut into flesh,
to wound a finger
Instead, it’s used for playful jest
for jokes about murder, pretend play of a police officer
The best it could do is to touch fire
to burn a careless child’s hand as a mother’s punishment
This butter knife wishes to be more
more than itself.
it stares at a picture of Mary
with her tender eyes,
the best of mothers
the bearer of a miracle
who too longed to be more
more than a vessel
The knife endures
just as Mary endured
knowing she would never be more than
the mother of a prophet—
her destiny defined by his
her love both
sacred
and
heavy
tinged with a quiet soul-sucking envy.