Knives

My grandfather was stationed
in the kitchen
where he washed dishes
until he was promoted to line cook,
dicing aromatics,
the chef calling out,
fire two lamb medium, one Cornish hen and one coq au vin!
 
The only touch of affection
my grandfather ever offered my father
was a stern handshake
at the breakfast table
where they said goodbye until tomorrow,
and which my father explains as why
he needs to wrap his arms around me,
feel the presence of my body
when I visit him for a few days.
 
Feeling the Wüsthof
against his fingers,
my father used to drag a step stool
to the marbled counter
as if to debone a chicken, portion double chops
and julienne summer squash
on the bare cutting board.
He practiced the movements of
mince and filet
without garlic or fish.
 
My grandfather said
to be behind the swinging door
was not for college graduates.
My father’s head forced in books,
where he learned instead,
to break down text
and balance the flavors of a poem.
 
So, one January morning
when I was in my father’s home
he gifted the knives newly sharpened
and the apron—
he told me
to grip the handle tightly,
and protect my fingers.