By Amanda Bell
Men were supposed to wield long knives,
preside at table, carve thin slices sidelong.
Yet when my father handed on the role
I didn’t yield my brother space, and with
a small sharp kitchen knife excised
the white meat from the bone
in one long piece, and on a board
I carved the breast from right to left:
each portion of an equal size,
each with its strip of crisp bronze skin.
I removed the legs, deboned
the thighs, and piled a platter high
with white meat, brown meat, drummers,
wings, and chunks of stuffing packed with nuts.
My task was executed well.
Why, then, the small sharp twist of shame
that I cut the flesh against the grain?
First published by Amanda Bell in First the Feathers, Doire Press, 2017