It used to be in the kitchen drawer
next to the silver forks.
They used it for bread and for lettuce heads
and to cut up the slices of pork.
It used to be washed with the dishes,
to be rinsed shining clean with a sponge.
When dinner'd been eaten and the table'd been neatened,
under the water it'd plunge.
Then, one dark night in September,
the knife was used by clammy hands.
It sliced terrible slashes and carved horrible gashes
'til it was hidden beneath the sand.
Now it sits, wrapped in clear plastic,
labeled as crime evidence.
Its edges are bloody, its blade rusted and muddy
and it hasn't been used ever since.
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